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STRATFORD  &  GREEN 

642  South  Main 


THE  PAGANS 


LOU 


The  web  of  our  life  is  of  a  mingled  yarn,  good  and  ill  together. 

ALL  's  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL,  IV.  3. 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 

<<£fe  fitoersibe  press,  &ambrtDgc 


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STRATFORD  &  GREEN 

642  South  Main 


COPYRIGHT.  1884, 
BY  HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY. 


Tht  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


DEDICATION. 

To  those  who  would  be  Pagans,  did  any  such  organization 
exist,  I  take  pleasure  in  offering  this  attempt  to  picture  a  phase 
of  life  which  they  know. 


2061752 


She  answered,  "cast  thy  rosary  on  the  ground  5  bind  on  thy 
shoulder  the  thread  of  paganism  ;  throw  stones  at  the  glass  of 
piety ;  and  quaff  from  a  full  goblet. " 

Persian  Religious  Hymn, 


CONTENTS. 


i. 

ii. 
in. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 


SOME  SPEECH  OF  MARRIAGE, 

THE  HEAVY  MIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT, 

THE  SHOT  OF  ACCIDENT, 

AFTER  SUCH  A  PAGAN   CUT,  - 

THE  BITTER  PAST, 

A  BOND  OF  AIR, 

IN  WAY  OF  TASTE. 

THE  INLY  TOUCH  OF  LOVE,   - 

VOLUBLE  AND  SHARP  DISCOURSE,  - 

O,  WICKED  WIT  AND  GIFT,      - 

WHOM   THE   FATES  HAVE  MARKED, 

WHAT  TIME  SHE  CHANTED,  - 

THE  ASSAY  OF  ART,       - 

THIS  IS  NOT  A  BOON,    - 

'TWAS  WONDROUS  PITIFUL,    - 

CRUEL      PROOF     OF       THIS      MAN'S 

STRENGTH,     - 

THIS    "WOULD"    CHANGES,    - 
BEDECKING  ORNAMENTS  OF  PRAISE, 
NOW  HE  IS  FOR  THE  NUMBERS, 


PACK 

I 


2  CONTENTS. 

XXIII.  HEART-SICK  WITH  THOUGHT,           -  158 

XXIV.  IN  PLACE  AND  IN  ACCOUNT  NOTHING  164 
XXV.  THIS  DEED  UNSHAPES  ME,     -            -  171 

XXVI.  THERE  BEGINS  CONFUSION,   -           -  180 

XXVII.  WEIGHING  DELIGHT  AND  DOLE,      -  189 

XXVIII.  LIKE  COVERED  FIRE,     -                         -  200 

XXIX.  A  NECESSARY  EVIL,         -                         -  209 

XXX.  HOW  CHANCES  MOCK,  -                        -  213 

XXXI.  HE  SPEAKS  THE  MERE  CONTRARY,  -  222 

XXXII.  A  SYMPATHY  OF  WOE,  -                        -  228 

XXXIII.  A  MINT  OF  PHRASES  IN  HIS  BRAIN,  236 

XXXIV.  HEART-BURNING  HEAT  OF  DUTY,  -  243 
XXXV.  PARTED  OUR  FELLOWSHIP,    -           -  251 

XXXVI.  AS  FALSE  AS  STAIRS  OF  SAND,           -  264 

XXXVII.  FAREWELL  AT  ONCE,  FOR  ONCE,  FOR 

ALL  AND  EVER,        -  -  -370 


THE  PAGANS. 


i. 

SOME   SPEECH    OF   MARRIAGE. 

Measure  for  Measure,  v — i. 

A  FINE,  drizzling  rain  was  striking  against  the 
windows  of  a  cosy  third  floor  sitting-room, 
obscuring  what  in  pleasant  weather  was  a  fine 
distant  view  of  the  Charles  river.  The  apartment 
was  evidently  that  of  a  woman,  as  numerous  de- 
tails of  arrangement  and  articles  of  feminine  use 
suggested ;  and  quite  as  evidently  it  was  the 
home  of  a  person  of  taste  and  refinement,  and 
of  one,  too,  who  had  traveled. 

Arthur  Fenton,  a  slender  young  artist,  with 
elegant  figure  and  deep  set  eyes,  was  lounging  in 
an  easy  chair  in  an  attitude  well  calculated  to 
show  to  advantage  his  graceful  outlines.  For 
occupation  he  was  turning  over  a  portfolio  of 
sketches,  whose  authorship  was  indicated  by  the 
attitude  of  the  lady  seated  near  by. 

She  was  a  woman  of  commanding  presence, 
with  full  lips,  whose  expression  was  contradicted 
by  the  almost  haughty  carriage  of  her  fine  head 


2  THE  PAGANS. 

and  the  keen  glance  of  her  eye,  which  indicated 
too  much  character  for  the  mere  pleasure-seeker. 
Her  hair  was  of  a  rich  chestnut,  and  she  wore  a 
dress  of  steel  gray  cashmere,  relieved  at  the 
throat  by  a  knot  of  pale  orange,  which  harmon- 
ized admirably  with  her  clear  complexion.  She 
watched  her  companion  as  if  secretly  anxious  for 
his  good  opinion  of  her  drawings,  yet  too  proud 
to  betray  any  feeling  in  the  matter.  He,  for  his 
part,  turned  them  over  with  seeming  listlessness, 
breaking  out  now  and  then  with  some  abrupt 
remark. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  suddenly,  after  a  ten  minutes' 
silence,  "  I'm  going  to  be  married  at  once.  It 
will  be  '  a  marriage  in  the  bush,'  as  the  Suabians 
call  an  impecunious  match,  since  neither  of  us 
has  any  money;  and  I,  at  least,  haven't  so  great 
a  superfluity  of  brains  that  in  this  intelligent  age 
of  the  world  I  am  ever  likely  to  make  much  by 
selling  myself ;  and  that  is  the  only  way  any  body 
gets  any  money  nowadays." 

"I  hardly  think  you'd  be  willing  to  sell,"  his 
companion  answered,  "  no  matter  how  good  the 
market." 

"  There's  where  you  are  wrong,"  he  answered, 
looking  up  with  a  sudden  frown,  "the worst  thing 
about  me  is  that  with  sufficient  inducement — or 
even  merely  from  the  temptation  of  an  especially 
good  opportunity — I  should  sell  myself  body  and 
soul  to  the  Philistines." 


SOME  SPEECH  OF  MARRIAGE.  3 

"  One  would  hardly  fancy  it,  from  the  way  you 
talk  of  Peter  Calvin  and  his  followers." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  retorted  the  artist,  "  don't 
you  see  that  judicious  opposition  increases  my 
market  value  when  I  am  ready  to  sell?  If  I 
could  only  be  sufficiently  prominent  in  my 
antagonism,  I  might  absolutely  fix  my  own 
price." 

The  lady  made  no  answer,  but  regarded  him 
more  intently  than  ever. 

"That's  a  good  thing,"  he  broke  out  again, 
holding  up  a  drawing.  "  Why  don't  you  do  that 
in  marble,  or  better  still,  in  bronze  ?  " 

"  I  am  putting  it  up  in  clay,"  she  answered. 
"  I  thought  I  had  shown  it  to  you.  It  is  to  be 
fired  as  my  first  experiment  in  a  big  piece  of 
terra-cotta.  That  is  the  first  sketch ;  I  think  I 
have  improved  upon  it." 

It  was  the  study  for  a  bas-relief  representing 
the  months,  twelve  characteristic  figures  running 
forward  with  the  utmost  speed.  Gifts  dropped 
from  their  hands  as  they  ran ;  from  the  fingers  of 
June  fell  flowers,  from  those  of  August  and  Sep- 
tember ripened  fruits,  upon  which  November  and 
December  trampled  ruthlessly.  January,  in  his 
haste,  overturned  an  altar  against  which  February 
stumbles. 

"It  is  melancholy  enough,"  Fenton  observed, 
regarding  it  closely.  "  How  melancholy  every 
thing  is  now-a-days?" 


4  THE  PAGANS. 

"  To  a  man  about  to  be  married  ?  "  she  asked, 
with  a  fine  smile. 

"  Oh,  always  to  me.  The  fact  that  I  am  going 
to  be  married  does  not  prevent  my  still  being  my- 
self." 

"  Unfortunately  not,"  she  returned,  with  a  faint 
suspicion  of  sarcasm  in  her  tone.  "  You  pique 
yourself  upon  being  somber." 

"  I  dare  say,"  answered  he,  a  trifle  petulantly. 
"  Pain  has  become  a  habit  with  me  ;  discontent  is 
about  the  only  luxury  I  can  afford,  heaven 
knows !  " 

"  Unless  it  is  gorgeous  cravats." 

"  Oh,  that,"  Fenton  said,  putting  his  hand  to 
the  blue  and  gold  tie  at  his  throat.  "  I'm  trying  to 
furbish  up  my  old  body  and  decrepit  heart  against 
my  nuptials,  so  I  invested  fifty  cents  in  this  tie." 

"  You  couldn't  have  done  it  cheaper,"  remarked 
she  ;  "  though,  perhaps,"  she  added  dryly,  "  it  is 
all  the  rejuvenation  is  worth." 

Fenton  smiled  grimly  and  again  applied  himself 
to  the  examination  of  the  drawings,  while  the 
other  looked  out  at  the  rain. 

"  Boston  has  more  climate,  and  that  far  worse," 
she  remarked,  "  than  any  other  known  locality." 

"  Does  that  mean  that  you  are  going  to  Her- 
man's this  afternoon  ?  "  asked  Fenton. 

"  I  should  have  gone  this  morning  if  you  had 
not  insisted  upon  my  wasting  my  time  simply  be- 
cause you  had  determined  to  waste  yours." 


SOME  SPEECH  OF  MARRIAGE.  5 

Fenton  laughed. 

"  You  are  frank  to  a  guest,"  he  said.  "  I  wished 
to  be  congratulated  on  my  marriage." 

"  I  shall  not  congratulate  you,"  she  answered. 
"  You  are  spoiled.  The  women  have  petted  you 
too  much." 

"  According  to  the  old  fairy  tale  all  goes  well 
with  the  man  of  whom  the  women  are  fond." 

"  I  remember,"  she  said.  "  I  always  pitied  their 
wives." 

"I  shall  treat  Edith  well." 

"  You  are  too  good-natured  not  to,  I  suppose  ; 
especially  when  you  look  forward  to  your  marriage 
with  such  rapture." 

"  But,  Helen,  have  I  ever  pretended  to  believe 
in  marriage?  Marriage  is  a  crime  !  Think  of  the 
wretched  folly  of  those  who  talk  of  the  holiness  of 
love's  being  protected  by  the  sanctities  of  mar- 
riage. If  love  is  holy,  let  it  have  way ;  if  it  is 
not,  all  the  sacraments  priests  can  devise  cannot 
sanctify  it." 

"  Then  why,  Arthur,  do  you  marry  at  all  ?" 

"  Because  marriage  is  a  necessary  evil  as  society 
is  at  present  constituted." 

"  But,"  Helen  said  slowly,  "you  who  pretend  to 
have  so  little  regard  for  society — " 

"  Ah,  there  it  is,"  he  interrupted.  "  Man  is  gre- 
garious by  instinct ;  he  must  do  as  his  fellows  do. 
He  must  submit  to  the  most  absurd  convenances 
of  his  fellowmen,  as  one  sheep  jumps  where  an- 


6  THE  PAGANS. 

other  did  though  the  bar  be  taken  away.  If  he 
were  strong  enough  to  stand  alone  he  might  take 
conventions  by  the  throat  and  be  a  god  !  " 

His  outburst  was  too  vehement  and  sudden  not 
to  come  from  some  underlying  current  of  deep 
feeling,  rather  than  from  the  present  conversation. 
He  had  risen  while  speaking,  his  head  thrown 
back,  his  eyes  sparkling.  His  companion  re- 
garded him  with  admiration,  not  unmixed,  how- 
ever, with  amusement. 

"  And  you,"  she  said,  "  choose  to  call  yourself  a 
man  without  enthusiasms." 

"  Yes,"  replied  he,  smiling  and  regaining  his 
seat,  "  I  am  a  man  without  enthusiasms." 

"That  is  the  cleverest  thing  you  ever  said," 
Helen  continued,  musingly.  "  And  so  we  under- 
stand you  intend  to  be  ruled,  by  conventionality 
and  marry  ?  " 

"  Precisely  ;  it  would  be  unjust  to  Edith  to  even 
talk  to  her  of  my  views." 

"  I  should  hope  so ! "  exclaimed  his  hostess. 
"  But  you  will  at  least  have  her  to  yourself,  and 
that  pays  for  every  thing." 

"  Qh,fleuf/fref  "  Fenton  returned  dubiously,  per- 
fectly well  aware  that  the  remark  had  been  made 
to  elicit  comment,  yet  too  fond  of  talking  to  resist 
temptation  and  leave  it  unanswered,  " peutctre, 
though  I  never  believed  in  the  desert-island  theory. 
It  is  more  in  your  line ;  you  still  have  faith  in  it." 

"  Oh,    I   do,"   she   rejoined   quickly ;  "  and   so 


SOME  SPEECH  OF  MARRIAGE.  7 

would  you  if  you  were  in  love.  You'd  be  content 
to  be  on  a  rock  in  the  mid  ocean  if  she  were 
there." 

"  Love  on  a  desert  island,"  returned  the  young 
man,  smiling  significantly ;  "  Oh,  le  premier  jour, 
cest  bon  ;  le  deuxihne  jour,  ce  nest  pas  si  bon  ; 
le  troisieme  jour—^-mon  Dieu,  metis  comment  on 
sennuie!  " 

"  No,  no,  no,"  Helen  broke  in  impetuously. 
"  Good,  always !  Always,  always,  or  never !  " 

Fenton  threw  back  his  head  and  burst  into  a 
shout  of  laughter. 

"  'Twere  errant  folly  to  presume, 
Love's  flame  could  burn  and  not  consume," 

he  sang,  going  off  again  into  peals  of  laughter. 
"  Good  by,  mon  amie ;  oh,  mats  comment  on 
sen — " 

"  Stop,"  interrupted  she.  "  I'll  have  no  more 
blasphemy." 

"  Good-by,  then,"  he  said,  picking  up  his 
hat. 

"  You  may  as  well  stay  to  lunch,"  his  hostess 
said  rising. 

"  No,"  returned  he.  "  I  must  go  and  write  to 
Edith." 

And  off  he  went,  humming: 

"  'Twere  errant  folly  to  presume 
Love's  flame  could  burn  and  not  consume." 


II. 

THE  HEAVY   MIDDLE  OF,  THE  NIGHT. 

Measure  for  Measure  ;  iv — I. 

AS  many  of  the  Boston  clocks  as  ever  permitted 
themselves  so  far  to  break  through  their  con- 
stitutional reserve  as  to  speak  above  a  whisper, 
had  announced  in  varying  tones  that  it  was  mid- 
night, yet  the  group  of  men  seated  in  easy  atti- 
tudes before  the  fire  in  one  of  the  sitting-rooms  of 
the  St.  Filipe  Club  showed  no  signs  of  breaking  up. 
Indeed,  the  room  was  so  pleasant  and  warm,  with 
its  artistically  combined  colors,  its  good  pictures 
and  glowing  grates,  and  the  storm  outside  raged 
so  savagely,  beating  its  wind  and  sleet  against  the 
windows,  that  a  reluctance  to  issue  from  the  club- 
house door  was  only  natural,  and  there  would  be 
little  room  for  surprise  should  the  men  conclude 
to  remain  where  they  were  until  daylight. 

The  conversation,  carried  on  amid  clouds  of  frag- 
rant tobacco  smoke  and  with  potations,  not  exces- 
sive but  comfortably  frequent,  was  quiet  and  un- 
flagging, possessing,  for  the  most  part,  that  mellow 
quality  which  is  seldom  attained  before  the  small 
hours  and  the  third  cigar. 

"Yes,  virtue  has  to  be  its  own  reward,"  Tom 


THE  HE  A  VY  MIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT.          9 

Bently  was  saying  lightly,  "  for,  don't  you  see,  the 
people  who  practice  it  are  too  narrow-minded  to 
appreciate  any  thing  else." 

"  And  that  makes  it  the  most  poorly  paid  of  all 
the  professions,"  was  the  retort  of  Fred  Rangely, 
who  was  lounging  in  a  big  easy  chair ;  "  except 
literature,  that  iz.  Even  sin  is  said  to  get  death 
for  its  wage,  and  that  is  something." 

"  Virtue  may  be  an  inestimable  prize  for  any 
thing  you  newspaper  men  can  tell.  It  is  not  a  com- 
modity you  are  used  to  handling." 

"  Literature  has  little  to  do  with  virtue,  it  is 
true,"  was  the  response.  "  Who  would  read  a 
novel  about  virtuous  people,  for  instance  ?  I'd  as 
soon  study  the  catechism." 

"  How  art  has  to  occupy  itself  with  iniquity," 
Fenton  observed  with  a  philosophical  puff  of  his 
cigar.  "  Or  what  people  call  iniquity ;  though  a 
truer  definition  would  be  nature." 

"  Painting  occupies  itself  with  iniquity  in  its 
models,"  Rangely  said  lazily.  "  I  heard  to-day — " 

"  No  scandals,"  interrupted  Grant  Herman, 
good  humoredly.  "You  are  going  to  tell  the 
story  about  Flackerman,  I  know." 

The  speaker  was  the  most  noticeable  man  in  the 
group.  Tom  Bently,  an  artist,  was  a  tall,  swarthy 
fellow  with  thin  black  beard,  stubble-like  hair,  and 
a  gypsyish  look.  Next  came  Fred  Rangely, 
an  author  of  some  reputation,  of  whom  his 
friends  expected  great  things,  rather  short  in 


10  THE  PAGANS. 

stature,  thick-set,  and  with  a  good-tempered,  intel- 
ligent face.  Fenton's  appearance  has  already 
been  touched  upon ;  he  was  of  elegant  figure, 
with  a  face  intellectual,  high-bred,  but  marred  by 
a  suspicion  of  superciliousness.  Amid  these 
friends,  Herman  gained  something  by  contrast 
with  each  and  naturally  became  the  center  of  the 
group.  This  prominence  was  partly  due  to  his  figure, 
of  large  mold,  finely  formed  and  firmly  knit,  carry- 
ing always  an  air  of  restful  strength  and  composure 
which  made  itself  felt  in  whatever  company  he 
found  himself.  His  head,  although  not  out  of 
proportion  with  his  fine  shoulders  and  trunk,  was 
somewhat  massive,  a  fact  which  was  emphasized 
a  little  by  the  profusion  of  his  locks,  now  plenti- 
fully sprinkled  with  gray.  His  face  was  indicative 
of  much  character,  the  lips  firm  and  full,  the  eyes 
large  and  dark,  now  serious  under  their  heavy 
brows  and  now  twinkling  with  contagious  merri- 
ment. 

"  It  isn't  every  model  you  can  talk  scandal 
about, "'chuckled  Bently,  in  reply  to  Herman's  re- 
mark. "  We  had  a  devilishly  pretty  fuss  in  Nick 
Featherstone's  studio  the  other  day.  Nick  found 
his  match  in  the  new  model." 

"  What  new  model  ? "  inquired  Fenton,  ar- 
ranging himself  into  an  effective  pose  before 
the  fire. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  picture  of  an  Italian 
girl  that  Tom  Demming  sent  to  the  Academy  ex- 


THE  HE  A  VY  MIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT.    II 

hibition  two  years  ago?  A  homely  face  with  lots 
of  character  in  it,  and  a  splendid  pose  ?  " 

"  You  mean  the  one  he  called  Marietta  ?  It 
was  well  done,  if  I  remember." 

"  Oh,  stunningly.  That's  the  girl.  She's  just 
landed,  and  Demming  gave  her  letters  to  me. 
She's  a  staving  good  model !  " 

"  But  she  isn't  pretty." 

"  No  ;  but  she  is  suggestive.  She  has  one  of 
those  faces  that  you  can  make  all  sorts  of  things 
out  of.  Rollins  made  a  sketch  of  her  head  that 
is  stunning ;  a  lovely  thing ;  and  it  looked  like 
her  too.  Then  her  figure  is  perfect,  and  what  is 
more,  she  knows  how  to  pose.  She  meets  an  idea 
half  way,  you  know,  and  hits  the  expression  won- 
derfully. She  has  given  me  points  for  my  picture 
every  time  she  has  been  at  the  studio." 

"  Is  her  name  Ninitta  ?  "  Grant  Herman  asked. 

"Yes ;  do  you  know  any  thing  about  her  ?  " 

"  I  think  I've  seen  her  in  Rome.  But  what  is 
she  doing  on  this  side  of  the  water?  " 

To  Arthur  Fenton's  keen  perception  there 
seemed  more  feeling  in  the  tone  than  an  inquiry 
into  the  affairs  of  a  stranger  would  be  likely  to 
evoke,  but  he  gave  the  matter  no  especial  thought. 

"  Yes,"  he  echoed  lightly,  "  what  is  she  here 
for  ?  There  is  no  art  in  this  country.  New  York 
is  the  home  of  barbarism  and  Boston  of  Philis- 
tinism ;  while  Cincinnati  is  a  chromo  imitation  of 
both.  She'd  better  have  staid  abroad." 


12  THE  PAGANS. 

"  Your  remark  is  true,  Arthur,"  Bently  laughed, 
"  if  it  isn't  very  relevant.  What  people  in  this 
country  want  isn't  art  at  all,  but  what  some  Great 
Panjandrum  or  other  abroad  has  labeled  art. 
They  don't  know  what  is  good." 

"  That  is  so  true,"  was  the  retort,  "  that  I  almost 
wonder  they  don't  buy  your  pictures,  Tom." 

"But  why  does  the  girl  come  to  America?" 
persisted  Herman,  with  a  faint  trace  of  irritation 
in  his  tone.  "  She  could  do  far  better  at  home." 

"  Oh,  Demming  wrote  that  she  was  bound  to 
come.  You  can  never  tell  what  ails  a  woman  any- 
how. Probably  she  has  a  lover  over  here  some- 
where." 

Herman  made  no  reply  save  by  an  involuntary 
lowering  of  his  heavy  brows,  and  Rangely  brought 
the  conversation  back  to  its  starting-point  by  ask- 
ing: 

"  But  what  about  Nick  Featherstone  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Nick?  Well,  Nick  tried  to  kiss  her  yes- 
terday, and  she  offered  to*  stab  him  with  some  sort 
of  a  devilish  dagger  arrangement  she  carries  about 
like  an  opera  heroine." 

"  Featherstone  is  always  a  strong  temptation  to 
an  honest  man's  boot,"  growled  Herman  out  of 
his  beard,  as  he  sat  with  his  head  sunk  upon  his 
breast,  staring  into  the  fire. 

"  They  had  a  scene  that  wouldn't  have  done 
discredit  to  a  first-class  opera-bouffe  company," 
Bently  went  on,  laughing  at  the  remembrance. 


THE  HEAVY  MIDDLE  OF  THE  NIGHT.        13 

"  Nick  was  fool  enough  to  hollo  to  somebody  in 
the  next  room,  and  the  result  was  that  we  all  came 
trooping  in  like  a  chorus.  It  was  absurd  enough.1" 

And  he  laughed  afresh. 

"  But  the  girl  ?  "  persisted  Grant  Herman,  not 
removing  his  gaze  from  the  fire.  "  How  did  she 
take  it?" 

"  Oh,  she  was  as  calm  and  cold  as  you  please. 
She  gathered  herself  together  and  went  off  with- 
out any  fuss." 

"  I  wish  when  you  are  done  with  her,  you'd 
send  her  round  to  me,"  Herman  rejoined.  <4 1 
want  a  model  for  a  figure,  and  if  I  remember  her, 
she'll  do  capitally." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
intends  going  home. 

"  By  the  way,"  Fenton  said  to  him,  "  isn't  the 
Pagan  night  next  week  ?  Don't  you  have  it  this 
month?" 

"  Yes ;  you'll  get  your  invitations  sometime  or 
other.  Good  night  all." 

"Oh,  don't  break  good  company,"  Rangely 
remonstrated.  "  I  have  half  a  bottle  here,  and  I 
do  hate  an  alcoholic  soliloquy." 

But  the  movement  for  departure  was  general, 
and  in  a  few  moments  more  the  members  of  the 
company  were  wending  their  individual  ways 
homeward  through  the  pelting  rain. 


III. 

THE  SHOT  OF  ACCIDENT. 

Othello;  iv. — I. 

THE  sun  shone  brightly  in  at  the  windows 
of  a  little  bare  studio  next  morning,  as  if 
to  atone  for  the  gloom  of  the  darkness  and  storm 
of  the  night.  The  Midas  touch  of  its  rays  fell 
upon  the  hair  of  Helen  Greyson,  turning  its  wavy 
locks  into  gold  as  she  softly  sang  over  her  model- 
ing- 
She  seemed  to  find  in  her  work  a  joy  which 
accorded  well  with  the  bright  day.  Pinned  to 
the  wall  was  an  improved  sketch  of  the  bas-relief 
whose  design  had  attracted  Fenton's  notice  in  her 
portfolio,  while  before  the  artist  stood  a  copy  in 
clay,  upon  which  she  was  working  with  those 
mysterious  touches  which  to  the  uninitiated  are 
mere  meaningless  dabs,  yet  under  which  the 
figures  were  growing  into  sightliness  and  beauty. 
Suddenly  her  song  was  interrupted  by  the 
sound  of  footsteps  without,  followed  by  a  tap 
upon  her  door. 

"Come,"  she   called;  and    Grant    Herman  en- 
tered in  response  to  the  invitation 

He   carried   in   his  arms  a  large   vase,  about 


THE  SHOT  OF  ACCIDENT.  15 

whose  sides  green  and  golden  dragons  coiled 
themselves  in  fantastic  relief. 

"  Your  vase  came  from  the  kiln,"  he  said,  "  and 
I  knew  you  would  want  to  see  it  at  once.  It  is 
the  most  successful  firing  they  have  done  here." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad,"  she  returned,  laying  down 
her  modeling  tools,  and  approaching  him  eagerly. 
"  I  was  sure  there  wouldn't  be  a  head  or  a  tail 
left  by  the  time  the  poor  monsters  came  out  of 
the  fiery  furnace.  What  a  splendid  color  that 
back  is !  And  that  golden  fin  is  gorgeous." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Greyson,"  Herman  said,  "you  have 
produced  a  veritable  dragon's  brood  this  time.  I 
can  almost  hear  them  hiss." 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  responded,  smoothing  the 
glittering  shapes  with  half  chary  touches.  "  I 
should  not  be  wholly  willing  to  have  the  vase  in 
my  room  at  night.  They  might,  you  know,  come 
to  life  and  go  gliding  about  in  a  ghastly  way." 

"I  always  wondered,"  the  sculptor  observed, 
"  that  Eve  had  the  courage  to  talk  with  the  ser- 
pent. Do  you  suppose  she  squealed  when  she 
saw  him  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  she  probably  divined  that  mischief 
was  brewing,  and  that  contented  her." 

Herman  had  set  the  vase  where  all  its  gorgeous 
hues  were  brought  out  by  the  sun,  which  sparkled 
and  danced  upon  every  spine  and  scale  of  the 
writhing  monsters.  He  walked  away  from  it  to 
observe  the  effect  at  a  greater  distance. 


1 6  THE  PAGANS. 

"There  is  no  pleasure  like  that  of  creating," 
he  said.  "  Man  is  a  god  when  he  can  look  on  his 
work  and  pronounce  it  good." 

"Which  is  seldom,"  she  returned,  "unless  in  the 
one  instant  after  its  completion  when  we  still  see 
what  we  intended  rather  than  what  we  have  made." 

"  It  is  fortunate  our  work  cannot  rise  up  to 
reproach  us  for  the  wide  difference  between  our 
intents  and  our  performances.  Fancy  one  of  my 
statues  taking  me  to  task  because  it  hasn't  the 
glory  it  had  in  my  brain." 

"  It  is  on  that  account,"  Mrs.  Greyson  said 
smiling,  "  that  I  fancy  Galatea  must  have 

been   most  uncomfortable  to  live  with.     When- 

• 

ever  Pygmalion  found  fault,  she  had  always  the 
retort  ready :  '  At  least  I  am  exactly  what  you 
chose  to  make  me.'  Poor  Pygmalion !  " 

"  It  was  no  more  true  than  in  the  case  of  every 
man  that  marries ;  we  all  bow  down  to  ideals,  I 
suppose.  Except,"  he  added  with  a  little  hesita- 
tion, "myself,  of  course." 

The  words  were  somewhat  awkward  in  the  hesi- 
tating accent  which  gave  them  a  suggestiveness 
at  which  the  faintest  of  flushes  mounted  to  her 
cheek.  She  bent  her  observations  more  closely  on 
the  vase. 

"  It  is  fired  so  much  better  than  the  last  miser- 
able failure,"  observed  she,  going  to  a  shelf  and 
reaching  after  a  dusty  vase,  massive  and  fantastic, 
which  had  been  ruined  in  the  kiln. 


THE  SHOT  OF  ACCIDENT.  17 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  Herman  said. 

But  she  had  already  loosened  the  vase,  which 
proved  heavier  than  she  expected,  and  it  was  only 
by  darting  forward,  and  throwing  his  arms  about 
her,  that  the  sculptor  was  enabled  to  save  her 
from  a  severe  blow.  The  vase  fell  crashing  to  the 
floor,  breaking  into  heavy  shards,  rattling  the  win- 
dows and  the  casts  upon  the  wall  by  the  concus- 
sion. 

An  exclamation  escaped  him.  He  had  drawn 
Mrs.  Greyson  backward,  and  for  a  brief  instant, 
held  her  in  his  strong  clasp.  It  was  an  accident 
which  to  mere  acquaintances  might  mean  nothing  ; 
to  lovers,  every  thing.  Herman  was  for  a  moment 
*  pale  with  the  fear  that  Helen  might  be  injured  ; 
then  the  hot  blood  surged  into  his  cheeks  as  he 
released  his  hold  and  stepped  back.  He  bent  over 
the  fragments  of  the  vase  that  she  might  not  see 
his  face,  and  by  so  doing,  as  he  reflected  afterward, 
he  failed  to  perceive  what  was  her  expression.  He 
straightened  himself  with  an  impetuous  movement, 
and  came  a  step  nearer. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  careless?  "  he  demanded, 
almost  with  irritation.  "  It  might  have  killed 
you." 

"  I  did  not  remember  that  it  was  so  heavy,"  she 
returned,  a  little  pale  and  panting.  "Do  you 
think  I  was  trying  to  pull  it  on  my  head  ?  I  am 
very  much  obliged,  though.  You  have  saved 
me  a  heavy  blow  at  least.  There  is  not  much 


18  THE  PAGANS. 

left   of    that   unlucky   vase.     It   was   always   ill- 
starred." 

"All's  well  that  ends  well,"  returned  the  sculp- 
tor, sufficiently  recovering  his  self-control  to  speak 
lightly;  "  only  don't  run  such  a  risk  another  time." 

"  Oh,  I  assure  you,"  she  replied,  "  I  do  not  make 
my  vases  either  to  break  my  head  or  to  be  broken 
themselves.  I  shall  take  better  care  of  this  one, 
you  may  be  confident." 

"  I  was  more  concerned  for  yourself  than  for 
the  vase." 

"  For  myself  it  really  does  not  so  much  matter." 

"  It  is  scarcely  kind  to  your  friends  to  say  so." 

"  Oh,— my  friends  !  " 

Over  her  face  came  an  inexplicable  expression, ' 
which  might  be  gloom  or  exultation,  and  the  tone 
in  which  she  spoke  was  equally  difficult  of  inter- 
pretation. She  seemed  determined,  however,  to 
fall  into  no  snares  of  speech  ;  she  smiled  upon  the 
sculptor  with  a  glance  at  once  radiant  and  per- 
plexing. 

She  turned  towards  the  new  vase  and  began 
slowly  to  whirl  the  modeling-stand  upon  which 
Herman  had  placed  it.  A  thousand  reflections 
danced  and  flickered  about  the  little  room  as  it 
revolved  in  the  sunlight,  glowing  and  glittering 
like  the  sparkles  from  a  carcanet  of  jewels.  The 
fiery  monsters  seemed  to  twine  and  coil  in  living 
motion  as  the  light  shone  upon  their  emerald  and 
golden  scales  and  bristling  spines. 


THE  SHOT  OF  ACCIDENT.  19 

"  I  wonder  if  Eve's  serpent  was  so  splendid," 
Mrs.  Greyson  laughed,  twirling  the  stand  yet 
faster  upon  its  pivot.  "  Would  I  do  for  Mother 
Eve,  do  you  think?" 

"  If  the  power  to  tempt  a  man  be  the  test,"  he 
retorted  with  an  odd  brusqueness  quite  dispropor- 
tionate to  the  apparent  lightness  of  the  occasion, 
the  dark  blood  mantling  his  face,  "  there  can  be  no 
doubt  of  it." 

A  swift  change  came  over  her  at  his  words.  She 
left  the  vase  and  stand  abruptly.  She  flushed 
crimson,  then  grew  pale  and  looked  about  her 
with  a  half  frightened  glance,  as  if  uncertain  which 
way  to  turn.  The  movement  touched  her  com- 
panion as  no  words  could  have  done. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  muttered. 

And  with  a  still  deeper  flush  on  his  swarthy 
cheek  he  turned  abruptly  and  quitted  the  room. 


IV. 


AFTER   SUCH  A   PAGAN   CUT. 

Henry  VIII.;  i. — 3. 

"  TN  the  first  place,"  said  Edith  Caldwell  bright- 

1  ly,  "you  know,  Arthur,  that  I  ought  not  to 
be  in  Boston  at  all,  when  I  have  so  much  to  see 
to  at  home  ;  and  in  the  second  place  Aunt  Calvin 
is  shocked  at  the  unconventionality  of  my  being 
seen  any  where  in  public  after  the  wedding-cards 
are  out ;  but  I  was  determined  to  see  this  picture. 
I  saw  it  when  he  had  just  begun  it  in  Paris,  you 
know,  three  years  ago." 

"  As  for  being  seen,"  Arthur  Fenton  returned, 
"  we  certainly  shall  never  be  seen  here.  The  Art 
Museum  is  the  most  solitary  place  in  the  city ; 
and  as  for  conventionalities,  why,  the  wedding  is 
so  quiet  and  so  far  off  that  I  think  nobody  here 
even  realizes  that  the  stupendous  event  is  immi- 
nent at  all." 

"  Oh,  but  I  do,"  Edith  said,  laughing  and  clasp- 
ing her  hands  with  a  pretty  gesture  of  mock  de- 
spair. "  I  feel  that  the  day  of  my  bondage  is 
advancing  with  unfaltering  tread,  like  the  day  of 
doom." 

"  Then  you  should  do  as  I  do  by  the  day  of 
doom,  disbelieve  in  it  altogether  until  it  comes." 


AFTER  SUCH  A  PAGAN  CUT.  21 

"  It  is  of  no  use.  Even  disbelief  will  not  alter 
the  almanac,  as  you'll  find  when  the  day  of  doom 
swoops  down  on  you." 

They  were  sitting  upon  one  of  the  hard  benches 
in  the  picture-gallery  of  the  Art  Museum  before 
an  important  work  just  sent  over  from  Europe  by 
its  American  purchaser.  The  afternoon  light  was 
beginning  to  be  a  little  dim,  and  Edith  was 
troubled  with  the  consciousness  that  the  errands 
which  had  brought  her  for  the  day  to  Boston  were 
far  from  being  accomplished.  It  was  pleasant  to 
linger,  however,  especially  as  this  might  be  the 
last  tranquil  day  she  should  pass  with  Arthur  be- 
fore their  marriage. 

She  rose  from  her  seat  and  crossed  to  the  pic- 
ture of  Millet  representing  a  peasant  girl  with  a 
distaff  of  flax  in  her  hand.  Fenton  sat  a  moment 
looking  after  his  betrothed,  critically  though 
fondly,  then  with  a  deliberate  movement  he  left 
his  seat  and  followed  her. 

"  Think  of  the  distance  between  this  country 
and  that  picture,"  he  remarked,  regarding  the 
beautiful  canvas.  "  Art  in  America  is  simply  an 
irreclaimable. mendicant  that  stands  on  the  street 
corners  and  holds  out  the  catch-penny  hand  of  a 
beggar." 

"  Oh,  no,"  Miss  Caldwell  replied,  turning  her 
clear  glance  to  his,  "  that  is  only  an  impostor  that 
pretends  to  be  art.  The  real  goddess  has  her  tem- 
ples here." 


22  THE  PAGANS. 

"  Yes,"  returned  he,  with  a  laugh  that  covered  a 
sneer,  "  but  not  in  the  way  you  mean." 

A  shadow  passed  over  her  face  ;  she  turned  a 
wistful  glance  towards  him. 

"  I  cannot  understand,  Arthur,"  she  said,  "  why 
you  speik  so  bitterly  about  art  here.  Of  course, 
all  great  men  are  apt  to  be  misunderstood  at  first, 
but  you—" 

"  I  am  over  estimated,"  he  interrupted,  inly 
vexed  at  having  given  the  conversation  this  turn. 
"  It  is  only  for  the  sake  of  talking,  ma  petite.  Don't 
mind  it." 

"  But,  Arthur,"  she  persisted,  "  I  want  to  say 
something.  Uncle  Peter  talks  as  if  you  sided  with 
the  artists  here  who — who — 

She  was  wholly  at  a  loss  to  phrase  what  she 
wished  to  say,  both  because  her  ideas  were  rather 
vague  and  because  she  feared  lest  she  might  offend 
her  lover  by  talking  upon  a  subject  which  he  had 
markedly  avoided.  He  made  now  a  fresh  effort  to 
divert  the  talk  into  a  new  channel. 

"  Never  mind'the  artists,"  he  said,  "  we  really 
must  go.  Besides,  you  are  only  in  town  for  a  day 
and  it  is  no  use  to  attempt  the  discussion  of  ques- 
tions which  involve  the  entire  order  of  the  uni- 
verse. I  promised  Mrs.  Calvin  I'd  bring  you 
back  in  half-an-hour,  and  we've  been  here  twice 
that  time  already." 

He  ran  on  brightly  and  rapidly,  leading  the  way 
out  of  the  gallery  and  down  the  stairs,  and  she 


AFTER  SUCH  A  PAGAN  CUT.  23 

followed  with  a  suspicion  of  shadow  upon  her  face 
as  if  the  subject  of  which  she  had  spoken  was  one 
of  real  importance  to  her. 

"  Come  in  and  see  the  jolly  old  Pasht,"  Arthur 
suggested,  as  they  descended  the  wide  staircase. 

She  acquiesced  by  turning  with  him  into  the 
room  devoted  to  the  Way  collection  of  Egyptian 
antiquities,  in  the  center  of  which  stands  a  some- 
what mutilated  granite  statue  of  the  goddess 
Pasht,  the  cat-headed  deity,  referred  to  the  time  of 
Amenophis  III,  about  1500  B.C.  Calm,  impassive 
and  saturnine  the  goddess  sits,  holding  the  sign  of 
life  with  lifeless  fingers  in  as  unconscious  mockery 
now  as  when  the  symbol  was  placed  within  the 
stony  grasp  by  some  unrecorded  sculptor  dead 
more  than  thirty  centuries  ago.  All  that  it  has 
looked  upon,  all  the  shifting  scenes  and  varied 
lands  upon  which  have  gazed  those  sightless  eyes, 
have  left  no  record  on  that  emotionless  face, 
whose  lips  still  keep  unchanged  their  faint  smile 
beneath  which  lurks  a  sneer. 

Arthur  and  Edith  stood  before  it,  as  a  pair  of 
Egyptian  levers  may  have  stood  long  ago,  and  for 
a  time  regarded  it  in  silence,  each  moved  in  a  way, 
though  very  differently,  as  their  temperaments 
differed. 

"  It  is  the  patron  saint  of  our  Pagans,"  the  art- 
ist said  at  length.  "  How  much  the  old  creature 
knows,  if  she  only  chose  to  tell.  She  could  give 
us  more  genuine  wisdom  than  we  shall  hear  in  our 


24  THE  PAGANS. 

whole  lives,  if  she  would  but  condescend  to 
speak." 

"  Wisdom  always  knows  the  value  of  silence," 
Edith  returned  smiling. 

"  But  Pasht  belies  her  sex  by  not  being  a  com- 
municative party,"  was  her  companion's  reply ; 
"although  communicativeness  was  never  a  char- 
acteristic of  the  gods." 

"  No  irreverence,  sir,"  Edith  said  with  an  air  of 
mock  authority,  "even  for  these  dethroned  deities. 
What  were  the  attributes  of  your  cat-headed  god- 
dess?" 

"  Oh,  various  things.  Pasht  means,  I  believe, 
the  devouring  one,  and  she  has  another  name  sig- 
nifying '  she  who  kindles  a  fire.'  She  was  the 
goddess  of  war  and  of  libraries,  and  the  '  mistress  of 
thought.'  A  sort  of  Egyptian  Minerva,  I  suppose." 

"  Violence  and  wisdom  always  seemed  to  me  a 
strange  combination,"  Edith  said  thoughtfully,  re- 
garding the  stone  image  intently,  as  if  to  drag 
from  its  cold  lips  a  solution  of  the  difficulty. 

"  You  overlook  the  destructive  power  of  words  ; 
besides,  the  sword  or  the  tongue,  what  does  it  mat- 
ter? Life  is  always  a  conflict,  and  it  is  of  miror 
importance  what  the  weapons  are.  It  is  appro- 
priate enough  for  this  dilapidated,  but  eminently 
respectable  female  to  be  the  figure-head  of  a  so- 
ciety like  the  Pagans  where  we  fight  with  words 
but  may  come  to  blows  any  time." 

He  spoke  gayly,  pleased  with  having  put  entirely 


AFTER  SUCH  A  PAGAN  CUT.  25 

out  of  the  conversation  the  unpleasant  subject  of 
his  relations  to  her  uncle,  Mr.  Peter  Calvin,  upon 
which  Edith  had  touched.  But  he  who  talks  with 
a  woman  must  expect  the  unexpected,  and  as  they 
turned  away  from  the  statue  of  Pasht,  and  walked 
towards  the  street  where  the  carriage  was  waiting, 
Miss  Caldwell  abruptly  brought  the  matter  up 
again  by  asking : 

"  But  why  are  you  artists  opposed  to  Uncle 
Peter,  Arthur?  What  is  the— 

"  The  Pagans,  ma  belle"  he  interrupted  coolly, 
quite  as  if  he  were  answering  her  question,  al- 
though in  reality  nothing  was  further  from  his  in- 
tention, "  isn't  really  a  society  at  all.  It  is  only 
the  name  by  which  we've  taken  to  calling  a  knot 
of  fellows  who  meet  once  a  month  in  each  other's 
studios.  We  are  all  St.  Filipe  men,  but  we've  no 
organization  as  a  club." 

"  Well  ?  "  Edith  asked,  as  he  paused  ;  evidently 
puzzled  to  discover  any  connection  between  her 
-question  and  his  reply. 

"And  you,"  her  betrothed  responded,  tucking 
her  into  the  carriage  and  surreptitiously  kissing 
her  hand,  "  are  the  loveliest  of  your  sex.  I'll 
come  to  take  you  to  the  depot  at  six,  you  know. 
Good-by." 

He  closed  the  carriage  door,  watched  her  drive 
off,  and  then  went  his  own  way. 


V. 

THE   BITTER   PAST. 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well ;  v.— 3. 

"  The  Pagans:  Friday,  Jan.  17. 
Pipes,  pictures  and  punch. 

GRANT  HERMAN." 

OUCH  was  the  invitation  received  one  day  by 
O  each  of  the  Pagans,  under  a  seal  bearing  the 
impress  of  the  goddess  Pasht. 

There  is  little  that  need  be  added  to  Fenton's 
account  of  the  Pagans.  The  society  had  no  or- 
ganization beyond  a  rule  to  meet  each  month  and 
to  limit  its  membership  to  seven ;  no  especial  prin- 
ciples beyond  an  unformulated  although  by  no 
means  unexpressed  antagonism  against  Philistin- 
ism. Fenton  had  suggested  Pasht  as  a  sort  of 
dea  mater,  and  had  furnished  the  seal  bearing 
the  image  of  that  goddess  which  it  was  customary  to 
use  upon  the  notifications  of  meetings ;  and  for  the 
rest  there  was  nothing  definite  to  distinguish  this 
group  of  earnest  and  sometimes  fiery  young  men 
from  any  other.  They  doubtless  said  a  great  many 
foolish  things,  but  they  did  so  many  wise  ones 
that  it  seemed  but  reasonable  to  assume  that 
there  must  be  some  grains  of  wisdom  mingled 


THE  BITTER  PAST.  27 

with  whatever  dross  was  to  be  found  in  their 
speech. 

Their  views  were  extreme  enough.  Fenton  was 
fond  of  maintaining  astounding  propositions, 
using  the  club  much  as  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes  once  privately  said  Wendell  Phillips  does 
the  community,  "  to  try  the  strength  of  extrava- 
gant theories  ;"  and  none  of  the  Pagans  were  re- 
strained by  any  conventionality  from  a  free  ex- 
pression of  opinion. 

It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  fixed  for 
the  Pagan  meeting  when  Helen  Greyson  took  her 
way  across  the  Common  and  through  the  business 
portion  of  the  city  to  the  building  down  by  the 
wharves  where  were  the  studios  of  Herman  and 
his  pupils.  It  was  feebly  raining,  the  weather 
having  been  decidedly  whimsical  all  that  week, 
and  the  clouds  rolled  in  ragged,  sullen  masses 
overhead.  Helen  felt  the  gloom  of  the  day  as  a 
vague  depression  which  she  endeavored  in  vain  to 
shake  off,  and  hastened  towards  her  studio,  hoping 
to  be  able  to  lose  herself  in  her  work. 

Picking  her  steps  among  the  piles  of  fire-brick 
and  terra-cotta  which  lumbered  the  yard  and  the 
long  shed  skirting  the  building,  which  was  a  terra- 
cotta manufactory,  she  let  herself  in  at  a  side  door 
and  went  directly  to  her  studio. 

Removing  the  wet  cloths  from  her  bas-relief, 
she  stood  for  a  moment  studying  it,  and  then  in- 
vesting herself  in  a  great  apron,  set  busily  to 


28  THE  PAGANS. 

work  upon  one  of  the  fleeting  figures  in  the  com- 
position. 

She  had  scarcely  begun  when  as  often  before  a 
heavy  step  was  heard  upon  the  stair  without,  a  tap 
sounded  lightly  upon  her  door,  and,  in  answer  to 
her  invitation,  Grant  Herman  entered. 

He,  too,  had  evidently  been  working  in  clay,  of 
which  his  loose  blouse  bore  abundant  marks.  A 
paper  cap,  not  unlike  that  of  a  pastry-cook  in 
an  English  picture,  was  stuck  a  little  aslant  over 
his  iron  gray  locks,  giving  him  a  certain  roguish 
air,  with  which  the  occasional  twinkle  in  his 
eye  harmonized  well. 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Greyson,"  he  said  in  his 
hearty  voice,  and  then  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
over  her  shoulder  at  her  work  in  silence. 

"  Do  you  think  the  movement  of  that  figure  too 
violent?"  his  pupil  asked,  turning  to  look  up  at 
him,  and  noticing  for  the  first  time  that  despite 
the  saucy  pose  of  his  cap,  the  sculptor  was  evi- 
dently not  in  the  best  of  spirits. 

"  No,"  returned  he,  rather  absently.  "  But  you 
must  have  less  agitation  in  the  robe ;  it  is  merely 
hurried  now,  not  swift.  Lengthen  and  simplify 
those  fo\ds — so." 

As  he  indicated  the  desired  curves  with  his 
nervous  fingers,  Mrs.  Greyson's  quick  eye  caught 
sight  of  a  striking  ring  upon  his  hand,  and  without 
thought  she  said,  involuntarily: 

"You  have  a  new  ring  !  " 


THE  BITl^ER  PAST.  29 

" Yes,"  returned  Herman,  flushing;  "or  rather 
a  very  old  one.  It  is  an  intaglio  that  the  artist 
Hoffmeir — I  have  told  you  of  our  friendship  in 
Rome — gave  me  one  Christmas.  I  returned  it  to 
him  when  I  left  Rome,  and  at  his  death  he  in  turn 
sent  it  back  to  me." 

"  But  Hoffmeir  has  been  dead  several  years." 

"  More  than  six  ;  but  the  ring  has  just  come  into 
my  hands." 

The  intaglio  was  a  dark  sard  beautifully  cut 
with  the  head  of  Minerva,  and  Mrs.  Greyson's  ar- 
tistic instincts  were  keenly  alive  to  the  exquisite 
delicacy  of  its  workmanship.  She  inquired  some- 
thing of  its  origin  and  probable  age,  and  then 
dropped  it  from  her  attention,  save  that,  being  a 
woman,  she  wondered  a  little  what  was  the  per- 
sonal bearing  of  this  token,  and  whether  the  sculp- 
tor's sadness  arose  from  the  awakening  of  memo- 
ries connected  with  it. 

"  It  must  seem  like  a  token  from  the  grave,"  she 
said,  "  coming  as  it  does,  so  long  after  Hoffmeir's 
death." 

"It  does,"  the  other  replied,  soberly ;  "but  it 
brought  a  message  with  it.  Oh,  the  wretchedness 
of  hearing  a  voice  from  the  dead,  to  whom  you 
can  send  no  answer  !  " 

The  burst  of  emotion  with  which  he  said  this 
was  very  unusual,  and  Mrs.  Greyson  regarded  him 
with  perhaps  as  much  surprise  as  sympathy,  hav- 
ing never  before  seen  him  so  deeply  moved. 


30  THE  PAGANS. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  ventured,  hesitatingly,  "  that 
what  I  said  seemed  intrusive,  though  of  course  it 
was  not  meant  to  be." 

"  It  did  not  seem  so ;  but  I  am  out  of  sorts  this 
afternoon.  I  have  sent  my  model  away  because  I 
am  too  much  unstrung  to  work." 

"  I  hope  nothing  bad  has  happened,"  said  Helen, 
quickly. 

"  No,  nothing  ;  it's  only  this  message  from  dear 
old  Hoffmeir." 

He  walked  away  and  pulled  aside  the  curtain 
which  screened  the  lower  half  of  the  window  over- 
looking the'  water,  and  stood  gazing  out  at  a  ves- 
sel lying  beside  the  wharf  beneath.  Mrs.  Grey- 
son  laid  down  her  modeling  tools,  disturbed  by 
the  other's  disquiet,  and  wondering  how  best  to 
distract  his  attention  from  himself.  Her  glance 
roved  inquiringly  about  the  little  room,  noting 
every  cast  upon  the  dingy  walls,  bits  of  sculptured 
foliage,  architectural  forms,  and  portions  of  the 
human  figure.  Then  her  gaze  rested  an  instant 
upon  her  own  work,  and  from  that  turned  toward 
the  robust  form  by  the  window. 

"  Come,  Mr.  Herman,"  she  said  at  length, 
in  a  tone  half  jesting,  "  I  never  saw  you  so 
somber." 

"  It  is  not  that  Hoffmeir  is  dead,  poor  fellow  !  " 
Herman  replied,  answering  her  unspoken  question. 
"  I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  endure  that,  and  any 
man  with  his  over-sensitive  temperament  is  better 


THE  BITTER  PAST.  31 

off  on  the  other  side  of  the  grass  than  this  any 
day.  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  Mrs.  Greyson,  though 
as  a  rule  I  do  not  find  much  comfort  in  blurting 
out  things.  The  fact  is  that  Hoffmeir  and  I  quar- 
reled over  a  girl.  We  were  both  in  love  with  her, 
like  two  young  fools  as  we  were ;  but  she'd  prom- 
ised to  marry  me,  and — it  was  a  deal  better  that 
she  didn't,  too.  I  thought  he  tried  to  take  her 
from  me.  Now  I  know  I  was  wrong,  and  that 
Fritz  was  as  high-souled  as  a  god  in  the  matter; 
but  then  I  sent  him  back  his  ring,  and  broke  off 
with  him  and  her  too.  I  was  a  fiery  young  fool  in 
those  days,"  he  added,  with  a  sad  and  bitter  smile, 
"a  young  fool." 

"  And  was  it  never  explained  ?  " 

"  Never  until  to-day.  He  was  far  too  proud  a 
man  to  call  me  back." 

"  But  the  girl  ?  "  queried  Helen,  with  increasing 
eagerness.  "  What  did  she  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  girl,"  he  repeated,  turning  away  again 
and  directing  his  gaze  out  of  the  window ;  "  what 
would  you  expect  her  to  do  ?  She  was  only  a 
peasant ;  and  though  I  was  honest  enough  then,  I 
outgrew  that  fever  centuries  ago." 

"  Yes,  you  did,"  returned  Helen,  with  gentle 
persistence,  "  but  what  did  she  do  ?  " 

"  What  do  women  usually  do  when  they  break 
with  one  lover  ?  Get  another,  I  suppose  !  " 

The  words  were  so  hard  and  coarse  to  come 
from  a  man  like  Grant  Herman  that  she  involun- 


32  THE  PAGANS. 

tarily  looked  up  quickly  at  him,  and  perhaps  he 
noticed  the  action. 

It  was  evident  that  some  deep  pain  had  pro- 
voked the  expression,  yet  had  found  no  relief  in 
the  rough  words.  The  sculptor  turned  toward  his 
companion  as  if  to  speak.  Then  slowly  his  eyes 
fell,  and  he  said  firmly,  if  a  little  stiffly : 

"  I  believe  I  do  her  injustice.  If  she  ever  loved 
a  man  she  was  one  who  would  love  him  always." 

He  left  the  little  room  without  more  words,  his 
firm,  even  tread  sounding  down  the  uncarpeted 
stairs  until  the  door  of  his  own  studio  was  heard 
to  close  after  him.  Mrs.  Greyson  stood  before 
her  clay  wondering,  and  then,  sinking  into  a  chair, 
sat  so  long  absorbed  in  thought  that  the  short 
daylight  faded  about  her  and  she  was  forced  to 
give  up  further  work  that  day.  Replacing  the  wet 
cloth  with  which  her  bas-relief  had  been  covered, 
she  prepared  to  return  home.  As  she  passed  the 
door  of  Herman's  studio  the  sculptor  opened  it. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand, 
"  what  made  me  so  rude  this  afternoon.  I  am  a 
bear  of  a  fellow,  but  I  had  meant  to  treat  you 
well." 

He  had  fully  recovered  his  composure,  but  his 
evident  desire  to  efface  the  impression  he  had 
made  naturally  rendered  it  more  lasting  in  Helen'* 
mind. 


VI. 

A    BOND     OF    AIR. 

Troilus  and  Cressida  ;  i. — 3. 

HAD  Helen  been  present  at  the  scene  which 
took  place  in  Herman's  studio  earlier  in  the 
afternoon,  she  would  perhaps  have  wondered  less 
at  his  disturbance. 

In  response  to  the  sculptor's  request  made  at 
the  Club  when  Ninitta's  name  was  first  mentioned, 
Bently,  when  the  girl  finished  posing  for  him,  sent 
her  to  the  sculptor's  studio. 

She  came  a  day  or  two  later  than  Bently  had 
directed  her,  not  hastening,  although  for  six  years 
she  had  shaped  her  entire  life  to  the  end  of  meet- 
ing Grant  Herman.  She  came  into  the  studio  as 
calmly  and  as  quietly  as  if  it  were  some  familiar 
place  which  she  had  left  but  yesterday,  arid  she 
greeted  the  sculptor  with  as  even  and  musical 
tone  as  in  the  old  Roman  days  when  as  yet  noth- 
ing had  occurred  to  stir  her  peaceful  bosom. 

For  his  part  the  man  stood  and  looked  at  her 
in  silence.  Even  when  a  ghost  from  the  past  has 
appeared  at  his  especial  summons,  one  seldom 
sees  it  unmoved,  and  Herman  was  conscious  that 


34  THE  PAGANS. 

his  heart  beat  more  quickly,  that  he  breathed 
more  heavily  as  Ninitta  let  fall  behind  her  the  rug 
porttire  and  came  towards  him  through  the  studio. 

She  had  a  dark,  homely  face,  only  redeemed 
from  positive  ugliness  by  her  deep,  expressive 
eyes.  Her  figure  was  superb  ;  rather  slender,  lithe 
and  sinewy,  but  without  an  angle  or  thin  curve. 
Like  Diana,  she  was  long  limbed,  so  that  she 
seemed  taller  than  she  really  was.  The  sweep  of 
neck  and  shoulder  was  exquisite,  and  her  simple 
dress  was  admirably  adapted  to  display  the  lines 
of  her  supple  form.  As  she  walked  down  the 
studio,  setting  her  feet  firmly  and  carrying  her 
head  with  fine  poise,  Grant  Herman  felt  the  ghost 
of  an  old  passion  stir  in  his  heart. 

"  How  do  you  do?"  he  composedly  answered 
her  greeting.  "You  have  improved  since  I  saw 
you  last." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  in  a  rich  voice  with 
strong  but  pleasant  accent.  *'  I  have  had  time." 

"  But  improvement  is  not  always  a  question  of 
time,"  returned  he.  "  Look  at  me." 

"You  have  grown  old,"  Ninitta  commented,  re- 
garding him  keenly.  "  You  are  gray  now." 

"Yes,"  retorted  the  other  lightly,  "  I  am  an  old 
man.  "  It  is  really  a  very  long  time  since  you 
posed  for  me  in  my  little  den  at  Rome." 

"  You  remember  those  days  perhaps,  some- 
times ? "  she  said,  dropping  the  long  lashes  over 
her  eyes. 


A  BO.VD  OF  AIR.  35 

A  shadow  passed  over  Herman's  high  brow. 

"Is  one  likely  to  forget  such  days?"  he  de- 
manded. "  Is  one  likely  to  forget  how  love  may 
be  turned  to  treachery  and — " 

"  Pardon,"  the  woman  interrupted  with  dignity. 
"  I  did  not  come  to  be  reproached,  eccelenza.  You 
have  not  forgotten  Signor  Hoffmeir?" 

"  No,"  he  answered,  with  a  deepening  frown. 
"  I  have  not  forgotten  the  man  who  pretended  to 
be  my  friend  and  proved  it  by  stealing  my  be- 
trothed." 

"  It  is  well  that  you  have  not  forgotten,"  Ninitta 
went  on  calmly,  but  earnestly,  "  for  I  have  a  mes- 
sage from  him.  He  charged  me  when  he  was  dy- 
ing," she  added,  crossing  herself,  "  to  give  it  to 
you  with  my  own  hands.  I  have  been  waiting 
for  all  these  years,  but  now  I  am  free  of  my 
promise." 

Herman  took  the  packet  she  extended  toward 
him,  and  turned  abruptly  away.  Ninitta  seated 
herself  in  one  of  the  tall  easy  chairs,  removed  her 
hat,  and  began  a  leisurely  survey  of  the  place. 
The  sounds  from  the  wharf  outside,  the  cries  of 
the  sailors,  the  creaking  of  the  cordage  and  the 
ships  came  softened  and  mellowed  like  the  day- 
light into  the  wide,  dim  studio,  giving  a  certain 
sense  of  remoteness  by  the  contrast  they  suggest- 
ed between  the  silence  within  and  the  stir  of  the 
world  without.  For  all  her  outward  calm,  Ninitta's 
heart  was  beating  hotly,  and  she  longed  with  a 


36  THE  PAGANS. 

great  yearning  for  a  touch  from  the  hand  of  the 
silent  man  before  her ;  for  a  word  of  kindness  from 
his  lips.  She  watched  him  furtively,  under  cover 
of  looking  at  a  cast  of  Celini's  Perseus  upon  a 
bracket  above  his  head,  as  he  stood  reading  the 
letter  from  Hoffmeir. 

"  Why  did  you  not  bring  this  to  me  before?" 
the  sculptor  asked  at  length,  turning  towards  her. 
"  It  is  six  years  now." 

"  Have  I  been  able  to  shape  my  life  ?"  returned 
Ninitta.  "  I  have  followed  you  to  Florence,  to 
Paris ;  you  came  to  America.  I  followed  you  to 
New  York;  you  were  here.  I  have  never  ceased 
trying  to  reach  you.  It  was  not  easy  for  me  to 
cross  half  the  world  alone  and  without  help  ;  with 
no  friends,  no  money  ;  with  nothing." 

"  But  you  have  been  in  Boston  a  couple  of 
months." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  quietly,  looking  up  into  his  face. 
"  But  you  knew  it.  I  waited  for  you  to  send  for 
me." 

"  I  have  only  known  it  a  week,"  was  the  sculp- 
tor's reply.  "  Do  you  know  what  was  in  Hoff- 
meir's  letter?  " 

"  His  ring  ;  the  one  you  wore  in  Rome." 
"  But  do  you  know  what  he  wrote  ?  " 
"  No,"  she  answered.     "  How  should  I  ?  " 
Her  questioner   looked    at   her   a   moment  in 
silence.     She  put  up  her  head  proudly  with  an  in- 
voluntary response  to  the  questioning  which  his 


A  BOND  OF  AIR.  37 

silence  implied,  and  met  his  eyes  unflinchingly. 
Yet  he  put  his  thought  into  words. 

"  It  is  seven  years  since  I  saw  you,"  he  said  at 
length. 

"  It  is  seven  years,"  she  echoed. 

"  In  seven  years  a  great  deal  may  happen,"  con- 
tinued he,  still  regarding  her  closely. 

"  Much,  much  has  happened,"  she  returned, 
still  meeting  his  gaze  without  shrinking. 

"  Are  you  married  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  certain 
abruptness  which  to  a  careful  observer  might  have 
indicated  that  the  question  cost  him  an  effort. 

"  No,"  Ninitta  returned  simply  ;  "  how  could  I 
be  when  I  was  betrothed  to  you  ?  " 

"  But  that  was  broken  off— 

The  sentence  stuck  in  his  throat ;  and  he  won- 
dered that  he  could  have  begun  it.  He  wondered, 
too,  how  he  could  even  have  doubted  the  faith  of 
the  woman  before  him ;  and  most  of  all  he  won- 
dered if  he  had  ever  really  loved  her.  He  had  an 
irritating  consciousness  that  something  was  ex- 
pected of  him  which  he  was  unwilling  to  give ; 
some  sign  of  tenderness,  some  caress  such  as  be- 
fitted the  reconciliation  of  lovers  long  separated 
by  misunderstanding  and  blinding  jealousy.  He 
{elt  as  if  he  were  falling  below  the  demands  of  the 
occasion,  most  annoying  of  sensations  to  the  mas- 
culine mind.  But  an  important  interview  can 
with  difficulty  be  changed  from  the  key  in  which 
it  is  begun,  and  even  had  his  feelings  prompted  a 


38  THE  PAGANS. 

display  of  tenderness,  he  felt  that  it  would  seem 
abrupt  and  forced.  He  waited  for  Ninitta  to 
speak. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  as  he  did  not 
continue,  "  it  w^.s  broken  off,  but  Signer  Hoffmeir 
said  that  was  because  you  did  not  understand,  and 
that  everything  would  be  as  it  had  been  when  you 
got  his  letter." 

A  sad  hopelessness  began  to  appear  in  her  eyes ; 
she  had  of  old  been  too  accustomed  to  submit  to 
her  lover's  will  to  assume  the  initiative  now,  despite 
the  development  and  strength  which  time  had 
given  to  her  character.  The  sculptor  did  not 
dream  how  her  heart  throbbed  beneath  her  quiet 
demeanor,  but  he  was  too  sensitive  not  to  be 
touched  by  the  unconscious  appeal  of  her  voice 
and  look. 

Seven  years  before,  an  enthusiastic  student  in 
Rome,  he  had  loved  or  believed  he  loved,  the 
peasant  girl  Ninitta,  whom  he  had  found  in 
an  excursion  to  Capri  and  induced  to  come  to  the 
Eternal  City  as  a  model. 

Too  honorable  to  betray  her,  he  had  meant  to 
make  the  model  his  wife,  and  was  betrothed  to  her 
with  a  solemnity  of  which  he  was  keenly  reminded 
to-day  by  the  ring  which  she  still  wore  upon  her 
finger.  Circumstances  had  convinced  him,  how- 
ever, that  Ninitta  was  deceiving  him,  and  that  she 
preferred  the  artist  Hoffmeir,  his  best  friend.  To 
break  off  both  engagement  and  friendship  with. 


A  BOND  OF  AIR.  39 

out  listening  to  a  word  of  explanation,  to  leave 
Rome  and  Italy,  were  comparatively  easy  for  a 
passionate  man  stung  to  the  quick  by  a  double 
treachery.  To  forget  was  more  difficult,  and 
although  a  thousand  times  had  Herman  assured 
himself  that  he  had  extinguished  the  last  spark 
of  emotion  concerning  this  episode,  the  faintest 
breath  of  an  old  memory  was  still  sufficient  to  re- 
kindle some  seemingly  dead  ember.  To-day, 
holding  in  his  hand  the  letter  from  his  lost  friend 
which  removed  all  his  doubts,  he  saw  that  instead 
of  being  injured  he  had  himself  been  cruel  and 
unjust ;  he  felt  the  full  anguish  of  having  com- 
mitted an  irreparable  fault.  We  may  outlive  our 
past  ;  its  sorrows  we  may  forget,  its  wrongs  we 
may  forgive,  we  may  even  smile  at  its 
crushed  hopes,  ambitions  and  loves  with  scarcely  a 
tinge  of  bitterness  ;  but  that  which  we  have  been 
stings  us  ever  with  the  burning  pain  of  an  undying 
remorse.  It  is  not  what  we  have  done  which 
awakens  our  deepest  self-scorn ;  it  is  the  fact  that 
we  were  this  which  made  it  possible  for  us  to  do 
it.  To  feel  that  he  had  been  capable  of  the 
cruelty  of  abandoning  his  betrothed  and  of  wound- 
ing his  closest  friend,  merely  from  a  groundless 
suspicion,  was  to  Grant  Herman  a  pain  never  to 
be  wholly  outlived. 

Nor  was  he  without  a  teasing  pain,  through  a 
less  noble  trait  in  his  nature,  from  the  conscious- 
ness that  he  had  loved  Ninitta.  Once  the  fires  of 


40  THE  PAGANS. 

love  have  burned  out,  any  mortal  is  apt  to  be  lost 
in  amazed  wonderment  how  they  were  ever 
kindled  ;  and  that  it  was  hard  for  Grant  Herman, 
at  thirty-five,  to  understand  how  Grant  Herman, 
at  twenty-seven,  could  have  adored  an  Italian 
peasant  model  is  not  so  without  precedent  as  to 
be  wholly  incomprehensible. 

Ninitta  had  been  a  good  girl,  his  thoughts  ran, 
was  doubtless  so  still ;  her  figure  was  enchanting, 
he  would  have  been  no  sculptor  had  he  failed  to 
appreciate  that ;  he  had  been  a  boy,  a  foolish 
youngster  to  be  dizzied  by  a  rushing  of  the  blood 
to  his  head  ;  but  to  make  her  his  wife  now 

"Ninitta,"  he  said,  suddenly,  breaking  off  from 
his  thoughts  into  words,  "  I  am  not  well  to-day  : 
come  to-morrow.  Are  you  comfortably  settled  in 
town  ?  Do  you  need  money  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  rising,  "  I  do  not  want 
money." 

She  went  slowly  down  the  studio  without 
further  word,  only  turning  back  as  she  passed 
Bently's  picture  for  which  she  had  posed,  and 
which  had  been  brought  for  the  meeting  of  the 
Pagans. 

"  You  have  seen,"  she  said,  "  I  am  able  to  earn. 
I  have  learned  much  while  I  was  bringing  you 
that  letter.  Across  the  world  is  a  long  way.  No; 
I  have  no  need  of  money." 


VII. 

IN  WAY   OF  TASTE. 

Troilus  and  Cressida  ;  iii. — 3. 

GRANT  HERMAN'S  studio,  in  which  the 
Pagans  met  that  night,  was  in  its  way  no  less 
unique  than  the  company  there  gathered.  It  was  a 
great,  misshapen  place,  narrow,  half  a  hundred  feet 
long,  and  disproportionately  high,  with  undressed 
brick  walls  and  cement  floor.  The  upper  half  of  one 
of  the  end  walls  was  taken  up  with  large  windows, 
before  which  were  drawn  dingy  curtains.  Here 
and  there  about  the  place  were  scattered  model- 
ing stands,  water  tanks  mounted  upon  rude  tri- 
pods, casts,  and  the  usual  lumber  of  a  sculptor's 
studio  ;  while  upon  the  walls  were  stuck  pictures, 
sketches,  and  reproductions  in  all  sorts  of  capri- 
cious groupings. 

In  one  corner  a  flight  of  stairs  led  to  a  gallery 
high  up  against  the  wall,  over  the  rude  railing  of 
which  looked  the  heads  of  a  couple  of  legless 
statues.  From  this  gallery  the  stairs  continued 
to  ascend  until  a  door  near  the  roof  was  reached, 
leading  to  unknown  regions  well  up  in  the  build- 
ing behind  which  the  studio  had  been  built  as  an 
afterthought.  On  shelves  were  confusedly  dis- 
posed dusty  bits  of  bronze,  plaster,  coarse  pottery 


4*  THE  PAGANS. 

and  rare  glass  ;  things  valueless  and  things  beyond 
price  standing  in  careless  fellowship.  A  canvas 
of  Corot  looked  down  upon  a  grotesque,  grimacing 
Japanese  idol,  a  beautiful  bronze  reproduction  of 
a  vase  by  Michael  Angelo  stood  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der with  a  bean-pot  full  of  tobacco  ;  a  crumpled 
cravat  was  thrown  carelessly  over  the  arm  of  a 
dancing  faun,  while  a  cluster  of  Bary£'s  matchless 
animals  were  apparently  making  their  way  with 
great  difficulty  through  a  collection  of  pipes, 
broken  modeling  tools,  faded  flowers  and  loose 
papers.  Every  where  it  was  evident  that  the 
studio  of  Herman  differed  from  heaven  in  at  least 
its  first  law. 

Quite  in  keeping  with  the  picturesque,  richly 
stored  room,  was  the  group  of  men  walking  about 
the  place  or  seated  near  the  rough  table  upon 
which  refreshments  were  placed.  On  this  table 
were  a  couple  of  splendid  punch-bowls  of  antique 
cut  glass,  which,  if  not  full  now,  had  unmistaka- 
ble marks  of  having  been  so  earlier  in  the  evening. 
A  coarse  dish  of  yellow  earthen  ware  beside  them 
held  an  ample  supply  of  biscuits,  and  was  in  turn 
flanked  by  a  couple  of  plates  of  cheese.  Fruit, 
beer,  and  tobacco  in  various  forms,  with  abundant 
glasses  and  pipes,  completed  the  furnishing  of  the 
board,  upon  which  a  newspaper  supplied  the  place 
of  a  cloth. 

Tom  Bently's  long,  shapely  limbs  were  dis- 
posed in  a  big  easy-chair  by  the  table,  his  tongue 


IN  WAY  OF  TASTE.  43 

being  just  now  employed  in  one  of  his  not  infre- 
quent harangues  upon  art,  his  remarks  being 
plentifully  spiced  with  profanity. 

"  Whatever  crazy  ideas  on  art,"  Bently  was 
saying,  "  aren't  good  for  any  thing  else  have  to  be 
put  into  a  book.  The  surest  recommendation  in 
art  circles  is  getting  out  a  book  or  giving  a  rub- 
bishy lecture.  Every  woman  who  has  painted  a 
few  bunches  of  flowers  or  daubed  a  little  pottery, 
writes  a  book  to  tell  how  she  did  it ;  as  if  it  were 
the  most  astonishing  thing  in  the  world." 

"  Women  are  very  like  hens,"  interpolated  Fen- 
ton  ;  "  they  always  cackle  most  over  the  smallest 

egg." 

"If  any  one  of  the  crew,"  continued  Bently, 
"  could  appreciate  a  fiftieth  part  of  the  sugges- 
tions in  a  single  sketch  of  an  old  master,  she 
might  have  something  to  write  about." 

"  But  then  she  would  know  enough  to  keep 
still,"  said  Rangely. 

"  Oh,  a  woman  never  knows  enough  to  keep 
still,"  Bently  retorted.  "  It  is  damned  amusing 
to  hear  the  average  American — 

A  chorus  of  protestations  arose. 

"  We'll  have  nothing  about  the  '  Average  Amer- 
ican,' Bently ! " 

"Start  somebody  else  on  his  hobby,"  suggested 
Ainsworth  ;  "  that's  the  only  way  to  choke  Bently 
off.  Where's  Fenton  ?  I  never  knew  him  quiet 
for  so  long  in  my  life." 


44  THE  PAGANS. 

Arthur  had  been  watching  his  companions  and 
smoking  in  silence.  He  smiled  brilliantly  at  Ains- 
worth's  challenge. 

"  I'm  overwhelmed  by  Bently's  oaths,"  he  said. 
"  He  outdoes  himself  to-night." 

"  When  it  comes  time  for  Tom's  epitaph,"  ob- 
served Rangely,  "  I  shall  suggest  that  it  be  a  dash." 

"Why  do  you  swear  so?  "  inquired  Ainsworth. 
"  Don't  you  think  it  in  execrable  taste  ?  " 

"Taste?"  laughed  Bently.  "Yes;  it's  so  far 

above  all  taste  as  to  be  a sight  higher  and 

bigger." 

"  I  make  a  distinction,"  Herman  put  in  good 
naturedly,  "  between  swearing  and  blasphemy ;  and 
Tom  never  blasphemes.  His  cursing  is  all  in  the 
interest  of  the  highest  virtues." 

"  Profanity  is  like  smoking,"  added  Tom. 
*'  Every  thing  depends  upon  how  you  do  it.  The 
English,  for  instance,  smoke  for  the  brutality  of 
the  thing;  they  never  have  any  of  the  French 
finesse,  and  their  smoking  is  nothing  less  than  a 
crime.  But  as  the  Arabs  smoke  it  is  one  of  the 
loftiest  virtues ;  there's  something  godlike  about 
it." 

"  It  is  from  smoking,"  Fenton  chimed  in,  "that 
the  Orientals  learned  how  to  treat  women  ;  for  a 
woman  is  like  tobacco,  the  aroma  should  be  en- 
joyed and  the  ashes  thrown  away." 

"  By  George  !  "  exclaimed  one  of  the  Pagans, 
moved  by  some  rare  compunction  to  remember 


IN  WA  Y  OF  TASTE.  45 

that  he  had  a  wife  at  home,  "  that's  infamous, 
Arthur." 

"  It  is  my  belief,"  observed  Ainsworth  delib- 
erately, "  that  Fenton  lies  awake  nights  to  invent 
beastly  things  to  say  about  women,  and  when  he 
gets  something  that  he  thinks  is  smart  he  throws 
it  into  the  conversation  any  where,  without  the 
slightest  regard  to  whether  it  fits  or  not." 

"  What  makes  you  so  bitter  against  women  ?  " 
asked  Bently. 

"  Yes,"  added  Rangely,  with  mock  deprecation. 
"  Why  do  you  want  to  annihilate  the  sex  ?  What 
harm  have  women  ever  done  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  retorted  the  artist,  "  it  is  on  theoretical 
principles,  purely.  I  adore  that  masculine  ideal 
which  man  calls  woman,  but  only  finds  in  his 
brain.  The  highest  on  earth  is  reached  only  by 
the  absolute  elimination  of  the  feminine.  Ah  ! 
man  is  at  his  best  in  war,"  he  went  on,  his  attitude 
becoming  less  studied  and  more  forcible,  as  he 
allowed  his  intellectual  interest  to  overpower  his 
vanity  ;  "  there  he  is  all  masculine ;  man  without 
the  limitations  that  the  presence  of  woman  im- 
poses upon  him.  There  woman  is  ignored,  and 
even  if  she  has  been  the  cause  of  the  war — and  to 
be  the  cause  of  war  is  woman's  noblest  preroga- 
tive ! — she  is  for  the  time  being  as  completely  for- 
gotten as  if  she  had  never  existed.  She  slips  into 
oblivion  as  does  the  horn  of  grog  which  gives  his 
courage." 


46  THE  PAGANS. 

Fenton  was  in  a  mood  when  he  fancied  he  was 
talking  well,  a  conviction  which  was  not  always  an 
accurate  measure  of  the  real  worth  of  his  remarks. 
He  delighted  in  presenting  half  truths  in  forcible 
phraseology,  relishing  the  taste  of  an  epigram 
quite  without  reference  to  its  verity.  He  amused 
himself  and  his  friends  with  talk  more  or  less 
brilliant,  of  which  no  one  knew  better  than  him- 
self the  fallacy,  but  whose  cleverness  atoned 
with  him  for  all  defects.  The  intellectual  excite- 
ment of  giving  free  rein  to  his  fancy  and  his 
tongue  was  dangerously  pleasant  to  Arthur,  who 
often  more  than  half  convinced  himself  of  the 
verity  of  his  extravagant  theories,  and  oftener 
still  involved  himself  in  their  defense  by  yielding 
to  the  mere  whim  of  phrasing  them  effectively. 

"  You  are  on  your  high  horse  to-night,  Fenton," 
cried  Rangely,  "  you  make  no  more  of  a  meta- 
phor than  a  racer  of  a  hurdle." 

"  Don't  stop  him,"  Ainsworth  said.  "  Let  him 
run  the  course  out  now  he's  on  the  track." 

"  When  man  comes  into  his  kingdom,"  Fenton 
broke  out  again,  too  fully  aroused  to  mind  the 
banter,  yet  with  a  sort  of  double  consciousness 
enjoying  the  absurdity  of  the  whole  conversation, 
"  when  man  comes  into  his  kingdom,  when  we 
get  to  the  perfection  of  the  race,  there  will  be 
no  women.  The  ultimate  man  will  be  masculine 
— men,  only  men  ;  gloriously  and  eternally  mas- 
culine ! " 


IiV  WA  Y  OF  TASTE.  47 

"But  how  will  the  race  perpetuate  itself?" 
asked  Tom  in  as  matter  of  fact  a  tone  as  he 
might  have  inquired  the  time  of  day. 

"  Perpetuate  itself  !  "  blazed  the  other.  "  The 
race  will  not  need  to  perpetuate  itself.  The 
world  will  be  peopled  with  gods !  When  once 
women  are  gone  the  race  will  have  become 
immortal ! " 

A  shout  of  mingled  applause  and  derision 
greeted  this  outburst,  amid  which  Fenton  threw 
himself  back  in  a  lounging  chair  and  lighted  a 
fresh  cigar.  He  was  intoxicated  with  himself, 
and  few  draughts  are  more  dangerous. 

"  Take  to  the  lecture  platform,  Fenton,"  jeered 
Ainsworth.  "  You'll  make  your  mark  in  the 
world  yet." 

"  I  wonder  you  stopped  at  immortality,"  re- 
marked Fred  Rangely.  "  You  usually  go  on  to 
dispose  of  the  future  state." 

"  Impossible,"  retorted  the  artist,  "  for  you 
never  heard  me  say  I  believed  in  one." 

"  That's  a  fact,"  confessed  the  other,  "  but  you 
insist  so  emphatically  that  women  have  no  moral 
sense  that  your  philosophy  certainly  would  dis- 
pose of  them  if  it  allow  any  future  state." 

"For  my  part,"  declared  Herman,  "I've  heard 
Fenton  talk  nonsense  as  long  as  I  want  to ;  let's 
look  at  the  pictures." 

An  informal  exhibition  had  been  arranged, 
consisting  of  pictures  loaned  by  friends,  and  in- 


48  THE  PAGANS. 

eluding  several  by  members  of  the  club.  The 
most  important  of  the  latter  was  a  gypsy  which 
Bently  had  just  completed,  and  which  exhibited 
that  artist's  defects  and  excellences  in  the  em- 
phatic manner  usual  with  his  productions.  The 
motif  was  better  than  the  technique,  but  Bently's 
splendid  feeling  for  color  somehow  carried  him 
through,  and  made  the  picture  not  only  striking 
but  rich  and  suggestive. 

"  If  you  could  learn  to  draw,  Tom,"  Fenton 
said,  as  they  stood  looking  at  it,  "you'd  be  the 
biggest  man  in  America." 

"  Is  that  the  new  model  you  were  talking 
about  ?  "  asked  Rangely. 

"Yes,"  Bently  answered.  "Isn't  she  a  stun- 
ner?" 

"  I  thought  that  shoulder  was  something  new," 
put  in  Fenton.  "  The  girl  poses  well ;  trust  a 
woman  with  shoulders  like  that  to  know  how  to 
display  them." 

"  Good  heavens !  "  exclaimed  Grant  Herman  in 
sudden  and  rare  irritation,  "  can  you  never  have 
done  slurring  at  women  ?  Didn't  you  have  a 
mother?  In  heaven's  name  let  some  woman 
escape  your  tongue  for  her  sake  !  " 

Such  an  outburst  from  their  host  produced  a 
profound  sensation  upon  the  Pagans.  The  most 
tolerant  of  men,  he  was  accustomed  to  listen  to 
their  wholesale  denunciations  of  all  things  with  a 
good  natured  smile,  contenting  himself  with  a 


IN  WA  Y  OF  TASTE.  49 

calm  contradiction  now  and  then.  Proverbial  for 
his  patience  and  good  temper,  he  produced  the 
greater  sensation  now  when  he  gave  vent  to  his 
anger  upon  a  subject  which  not  only  Fenton  but 
every  guest  present  usually  considered  fair  game. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  vexed  you,  Herman,"  Fenton 
said,  turning  to  him  after  a  moment's  silence, 
"but  however  much  I've  abused  women,  you 
never  heard  me  blackguard  a  woman  in  your 
life." 

"  You  are  right,"  the  sculptor  replied,  catching 
the  other's  slender  hand  in  his  stalwart  grasp. 
"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm  out  of  sorts,  I  suppose, 
or  I  shouldn't  be  quarreling  like  a  Christian. 
Let's  brew  a  new  bowl  and  drink  to  Pagan 
harmony." 


VIII. 

THE  INLY  TOUCH  OF  LOVE. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  ;  ii. — 7. 

A  FTER  the  Pagans  had  separated  that  night 
/I  Fred  Rangely  lingered  in  Herman's  studio. 

The  sculptor  somehow  found  it  possible  to  be 
more  frank  with  Rangely  than  with  any  other  of 
his  companions,  and  although  there  was  a  differ- 
ence of  some  half  a  dozen  in  the  count  of  their 
years,  and  perhaps  more  in  their  ages  as  measured 
by  experiences,  Herman's  strong  but  naturally 
stormy  nature  found  much  pleasure  in  the  calm 
philosophy  of  his  friend. 

Scarcely  were  the  two  men  alone,  when  Rangely 
turned  to  his  host  and  demanded  abruptly: 

"  Now,  I  want  to  know,  Grant,  what  in  the 
devil  is  the  matter  with  you  to-night  ?  What  set 
you  out  to  pitch  into  Fentonso?" 

Herman  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine  and 
wallowed  it  before  replying. 

"  Because  I  am  a  damned  idiot !  "  he  retorted 
savagely.  "  I'm  all  shaken  up,  Fred  ;  and  the 
worst  of  it  is  that  I  don't  see  any  way  out  of  the 
snare  I'm  in." 

"  It  isn't  real  trouble,  I  hope." 


THE  INL  Y  TOUCH  OF  LOVE.  51 

"  Isn't  it !  By  Jove  !  "  cried  the  sculptor,  "  the 
more  honest  a  man  is  in  this  world  the  worse  off 
he  is.  If  I  hadn't  had  a  conscience  when  I  was  a 
young  fellow,  I  should  be  all  right  now.  Who  is 
it — Fenton  ? — that  is  always  saying  that  he  asks 
forgiveness  for  his  virtues  and  thanks  the  gods  for 
every  vice  he  can  cultivate  ?" 

"  Well,"  Rangely  remarked,  filling  a  pipe,  and 
curiously  surveying  his  companion,  who  was 
raging  up  and  down  the  studio,  "  you  don't  seem 
to  be  in  an  especially  cheerful  and  enlivening  frame 
of  mind  ;  that's  a  fact.  If  a  fellow  can  be  of  any 
help,  call  on  ;  if  not,  at  least  try  to  take  it  a  little 
more  gently  for  the  sake  of  your  friends." 

"  Do  any  thing  ?  "  retorted  the  other.  "  No  ; 
there's  nothing  to  be  done.  I'm  a  fool." 

"  Even  that  disease  has  been  remedied  before 
now,"  Rangely  said  coolly ;  "  though  usually  ex- 
perience and  time  are  necessary  to  the  cure." 

"  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  story,"  Herman  ex- 
claimed, flinging  himself  into  a  chair.  "  It  is  all 
simple  enough.  It  13  always  simple  enough  to 
tangle  things  up  so  that  Lucifer  himself  cannot 
unsnarl  them.  When  I  was  in  Rome  I  was  in 
love — crazily,  gushingly  in  love,  you  understand, 
like  a  big  schoolboy — with  a  girl  I  found  in  Capri. 
She  was  a  good  little  thing,  with  a  figure  like 
Helen's ;  that's  what  did  the  business  for  me.  I 
coaxed  her  to  Rome  to  be  my  model,  and  then 
that  infernal  conscience  of  mine  made  me  ask  her 


52  THE  PAGANS. 

to  marry  me.  I  could  have  done  any  thing  I  liked 
with  her ;  I  knew  that ;  she  had  nobody  to  look 
after  her  but  a  half  sister  who  paid  about  as  much 
attention  to  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  grasshopper. 
But  the  infernal  New  England  Puritanism  in  my 
blood  wouldn't  let  me  hurt  her." 

"And  somebody  else  wasn't  so  scrupulous?" 
asked  the  listener  as  his  friend  paused  in  his  story. 

"  You  think  so  ? "  returned  Herman  eagerly. 
"  Then  I  wasn't  so  unutterably  a  scoundrel  for 
thinking  so,  too,  was  I  ?  I  did  doubt  her ;  I  had 
reason  to.  She  posed  for  a  friend  of  mine,  a 
painter ;  you  know,  of  course — Hang  it !  What's 
the  use  of  going  into  all  the  details.  I  was  poor 
as  a  church  mouse  or  she  shouldn't  have  done  it 
at  all,  even  for  him.  The  gist  of  the  story  is  that 
I  was  jealous  and  flew  out  at  both  of  them,  and 
left  Rome  in  a  rage !  " 

The  two  men  sat  in  silence  for  some  moments. 
Rangely  puffed  vigorously  at  his  pipe,  while  his 
companion  stared  savagely  into  the  shadows  in  the 
further  end  of  the  studio.  Neither  looked  at  the 
other ;  the  hearer  appreciated  too  well  the  shame- 
facedness  by  which  these  unusual  confidences 
must  be  accompanied.  From  some  distant  steeple 
a  clock  was  faintly  heard  striking  two. 

"  And  to-day,"  Herman  at  length  began  again 
in  an  altered  voice,  "  to-day  she  came  here.  She 
has  followed  me  all  these  years,  going  through 
heaven  knows  what  experiences  and  hardships,  to 


THE  INLY  TOUCH  OF  LOVE.  53 

bring  me  the  proof  that  I  was  a  madman  blinded 
by  groundless  jealousy,  and  that  instead  of  being 
wronged  I  cursedly  abused  both  her  and  poor 
dead  old  Hoffmeir." 

Again  there  came  an  interval  of  silence.  A 
lamp  flickered  and  went  out  with  a  muffled  sound. 
The  thoughts  of  both  men  were  of  that  formless 
character  scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from 
emotions ;  on  the  one  hand  sad  and  remorseful, 
on  the  other  sympathetic  and  pitiful. 

"  Well  ?  "  Rangely  ventured  after  a  time. 

"  But  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  demanded  Herman. 
"  I  cannot  marry  her." 

"  No,  of  course  not.  She  cannot  expect  it  after 
banging  about  the  world." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  that,"  the  other  said  hastily.  "  She 
is  as  good  and  as  pure  as  when  I  left  her ;  at  least 
I  believe  so.  And  she  does  expect  it." 

"  She  does  expect  it !  "  echoed  his  friend.  "  Ah  I " 

The  reception  of  a  confidence  is  a  most  delicate 
ordeal  through  which  few  people  come  unscathed. 
Rare  individuals  are  born  with  the  ready  sympa- 
thies, quick  apprehension,  and  exquisite  tact  need- 
ful ;  but  the  vast  majority  are  sure  to  wound  their 
friends  if  the  latter  ever  venture  to  approach  with 
their  armor  of  reticence  laid  wholly  aside. 

Although  perhaps  not  the  ideal  confidant, 
Rangely  was  sympathetic  and  possessed  of  at  least 
sufficient  discretion  to  avoid  comment  until  he 
knew  the  whole  situation  and  was  sure  that  his 


54  THE  PAGANS. 

opinion  was  desired.  He  was  still  unable  fully  to 
understand  his  friend's  agitation,  the  task  of  dis- 
posing of  an  old  sweetheart  in  so  inferior  a  posi- 
tion not  appearing  to  his  easy-going  nature  a  mat- 
ter sufficiently  difficult  to  warrant  so  deep  dis- 
quiet. 

Precisely  the  clew  that  he  needed  the  sculptor 
had  not  given,  but  he  was  endeavoring  to  over- 
come his  repugnance  to  disclosing  his  most  secret 
feelings.  Every  word  cost  him  an  effort,  but  he 
went  on  with  a  savage  sense  of  doing  penance  by 
the  self-inflicted  torture. 

"  Yes,"  he  repeated, "  she  expects  it.  Why 
shouldn't  she,  poor  thing?  She  has  not  changed, 
and  she  does  not  understand  that  I  may  have  al- 
tered." 

"And  you  have?" 

Grant  Herman  looked  up  and  down  the  great 
studio,  now  growing  dusky  from  the  burning  out 
of  candles  here  and  there.  An  antique  lamp 
which  was  lighted  only  on  special  occasions  stood 
where  the  breeze  came  to  it  from  the  high  win- 
dow, and  the  flame,  wind-swept,  smoked  and 
flared.  Through  the  silence  the  listener's  ear 
could  detect  a  faint  sound  of  the  tide  washing 
against  the  piles  of  the  wharf  outside. 

The  sculptor  started  up  suddenly  and  stood 
firmly,  throwing  back  his  splendid  head  and 
shoulders,  and  looking  straight  into  the  eyes  of 
his  friend. 


THE  INLY  TOUCH  OF  LOVE.  55 

"  Yes,"  he  said  in  a  clear,  low  voice.  "  I  have 
changed.  I —  There  is  some  one  else." 

"  Life,"  remarked  Rangely,  with  seeming  irrel- 
evancy, "  life  is  a  fallacy." 

"  I'd  like  to  be  honorable,"  Herman  continued, 
"  but  how  can  I  ?  It  is  impossible  to  be  honest  to 
both  her  and  myself.  If  I  hadn't  had  any  scru- 
ples, then —  Bah  !  What  a  beast  I  am !  Poor 
Ninitta." 

Still  Rangely  smoked  in  silence,  and  the  sculp- 
tor went  on  again. 

"  It  has  always  been  my  creed  that  when  a  man 
has  allowed  a  woman  to  love  him — much  more, 
made  her  love  him,  as  I  did — he  is  a  black-hearted 
knave  to  let  a  change  in  himself  wreck  her  happi- 
ness. Now  I  am  put  to  the  test." 

"And  the  other  one?"  asked  Rangely.  "  Does 
she  know  that  you  care  for  her?" 

"  I  have  never  said  so  to  her.  Heaven  only 
knows  how  much  she  feels  by  intuition.  A  man 
always  fancies  that  the  woman  he  loves  can  te.ll." 

"  That  may  depend  something  on  how  often 
you  see  her." 

"  I  see  her  nearly  every  day.     She  is  my  pupil." 

"  Mrs.  Greyson  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Herman  said,  a  little  defiantly,  as  if 
now  the  secret  was  told  he  challenged  the  right  of 
another  man  to  share  it. 

"  Is  she  a  widow  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  other  answered,  with  no  perceptible 


56  THE  PAGANS. 

pause,  and  yet  between  the  question  and  his  reply 
had  come  to  him  the  swift  remembrance  that  he 
really  knew  nothing  of  his  pupil's  life  or  history, 
and  had  simply  taken  it  for  granted  that  her  hus- 
band was  not  living.  "Arthur  Fenton  brought 
her  here,"  he  added,  rather  thinking  aloud  than 
answering  any  point  of  Rangely's  query.  "  He 
was  an  old  friend  of  her  husband." 

"  But  w.hat  will  you  do  with  the  other?" 
Instead   of  replying  Herman  got  up  from  the 
seat  into  which  he  had  flung   himself,  and  went 
about  the  studio  putting  out  the  lights. 

"  Go  home,"  he  said  with  a  whimsical  smile. 
"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  we  are  talking  about 
at  this  time  of  the  morning.  As  for  what  I  shaV 
do —  Well,  time  will  show ;  I  am  as  ignorant  as 
yourself  on  the  subject." 


IX. 


VOLUBLE  AND   SHARP  DISCOURSE. 

Comedy  of  Errors  ;  ii, — I. 

IT  suited  Fenton's  whim  next  morning  to  dine 
with  Mrs.  Greyson.  He  had  established  the 
habit  of  dropping  in  when  he  chose,  always  sure  of 
a  welcome,  and  always  sure,  too,  of  a  listener  to 
the  tirades  in  which  he  was  fond  of  indulging.  If 
Helen  did  not  always  accord  him  agreement,  she 
at  least  gave  attention,  and  he  cared  rather  to 
talk  than  to  convince. 

His  aesthetic  taste,  moreover,  was  gratified  by 
the  pretty  breakfast  table  ;  and  he  was  not  with- 
out a  subtle  sense  of  pleasure  in  the  beauty  and 
harmonious  dress  of  his  hostess,  who  possessed  the 
rare  charm  of  contriving  to  be  always  well  attired. 
This  morning  she  wore  a  gown  of  russet  cashmere 
with  here  and  there  knots  of  dull  gold  ribbon, 
which  tint  formed  a  pleasing  link  between  the 
stuff  and  the  color  of  her  clear  skin. 

"It  is  good  of  you  to  come,"  she  said,  as  she 
poured  his  coffee.  "  There  are  so  few  days  left 
before  you  will  have  married  a  wife  and  cannot 
come.  I  shall  miss  you  very  much." 

"  Why  do  you  persist  in  talking  in  that  way?" 


58  THE  PAGANS. 

Fenton  returned.  '"  I'm  not  going  out  of  the 
country  or  out  of  the  world.  You  could  not  take 
a  more  absolute  farewell  if  I  were  about  to  be 
cremated." 

"You  do  not*  know,"  replied  she,  smiling. 
"  However,  I  am  glad  you  are  to  be  married.  It 
will  do  you  good.  You  need  a  wife,  if  you  do 
dread  matrimony  so  much." 

"It  is  abominable,"  he  observed  deliberately, 
"  to  talk  as  I  do.  Of  course  I  do  not  mind  what 
you  choose  to  think  of  me  ;  or  rather  I  am  sure 
you  will  not  misunderstand." 

"  I  do  not,"  Mrs.  Greyson  interpolated  signifi- 
cantly. 

"  But  it  seems  a  reflection  upon  Miss  Caldwell," 
he  continued,  answering  her  interruption  only  by 
a  grimace,  "  for  me  to  discourse  of  marriage  just 
as  I  do.  It  isn't  because  I'm  not  fond  of  her.  It 
is  my  protest  against  the  absurd  and  false  way  in 
which  society  regards  marriage  ;  in  a  word  against 
marriage  itself." 

Mrs.  Greyson  understood  Arthur  Fenton  as  well 
as  any  woman  can  understand  a  man  who  is  her 
friend.  Her  friendship  softened  the  harshness  of 
her  judgments,  but  she  could  not  be  blind  to  his 
vanity,  his  constant  efforts  at  self-deception,  and 
so  far  as  she  was  in  possession  of  the  facts,  she 
reasoned  correctly  in  regard  to  his  approaching 
marriage. 

"  No,"  she    said    calmly,  "  it    isn't    even    that. 


VOLUBLE  AND  SHARP  DISCOURSE.  59 

You  talk  partly  for  the  sake  of  saying  things  that 
sound  effective,  and  partly  because  you  are  mor- 
bid from  over  introspection.  If  you  were  vicious, 
I  should  say  you  did  it  as  an  atonement.  Many 
people  would  not  understand  you,  but  as  I  do,  it 
is  harmless  for  you  to  talk  to  me." 

"  Introspective  ?  Of  course.  Can  any  body 
help  being  that  in  this  age  ?  And  as  for  being 
morbid — it  all  depends  upon  definitioos.  I  try  to 
be  honest  with  myself." 

"  The  subtlest  form  of  hypocrisy,"  she  answered, 
"  often  consists  in  what  we  call  being  honest  with 
ourselves.  I  gave  that  up  long  ago.  You  are  not 
honest  with  yourself  about  this  marriage.  If  you 
don't  wish  to  marry  Miss  Caldwell,  who  forces 
you  to  do  so  ?  " 

"  Forces  me  to  ?  Good  heavens  !  I  do  wish  to 
marry  her.  Of  course  I  don't  ever  expect  to  be 
perfectly  happy.  In  this  inexplicable  world 
natures  that  demand  that  every  thing  shall  be  ex- 
plained must  necessarily  remain  unsatisfied.  Still, 
I'd  take  a  little  more  coffee  as  a  palliation  of  my 
lot,  if  you  please." 

"  It  is  well  you  are  to  marry,"  observed  Helen, 
refilling  his  cup.  "  You've  concentrated  your  at- 
tention upon  yourself  too  long." 

"  But  I  am  afraid  of  poverty.  If  I  find  some 
old  Boston  duffer  with  a  lot  of  money,  and  can 
fool  him  into  admiring  the  frame  of  one  of  my 
pictures,  he  may  buy  it,  and  I-can  pay  the  butcher, 


60  THE  PAGANS, 

the  baker  and  the  gas  man  for  a  week.  If  I  can't, 
I  must  daub  the  canvas  a  little  higher  and  try  the 
same  game  in  New  York,  and —  " 

"  Rubbish  !  "  she  interrupted.  "  The  difficulty 
is,  you  are  too  self-indulgent.  You  are  too  much 
afraid  of  the  little  discomforts." 

"  No,"  he  answered  ;  "  men — at  least  sensitive 
men — do  not  suffer  so  much  from  the  discomforts 
of  poverty  as  from  its  indignities." 

"  If—  "  began  Helen ;  but  without  finishing,  she 
rose  from  the  table,  went  to  the  window  and 
stood  looking  out. 

Fenton  watched  her  idly,  knowing  perfectly 
that  the  woman  before  him  was  capable  of  sacrific- 
ing for  him  all  the  little  income  which  was  her's  ; 
and  he  wondered,  as  men  will,  how  deep  her  feel- 
ing for  him  had  really  become,  and  whether  it  had 
ever  passed  that  mysterious  and  undefinable  line 
which  separates  love  from  friendship. 

Helen  had  often  endeavored  to  assist  the  artist 
out  of  some  financial  difficulty  by  buying  one  of 
his  unsaleable  pictures,  a  pretext  which  he  had  the 
grace  to  put  aside  by  refusing  to  sell,  sometimes 
sending  her  as  a  gift  precisely  the  work  for  which  he 
could  most  easily  find  a  purchaser.  There  was 
continually  a  silent  struggle,  more  or  less  con- 
sciously carried  on  between  the  two,  although 
seldom  appearing  upon  the  surface.  Too  much 
Fenton's  friend  not  to  be  pained  by  his  weaknesses, 
Helen  was  stung  to  the  quick  by  a  certain  in- 


VOLU3LE  AND  SHARP  DISCOURSE.  6 1 

sincerity  which  she  often  detected  alike  beneath 
his  raillery  and  his  cynicism.  Too  noble  to  yield 
to  any  belief  in  a  friend's  unworthiness  without  re- 
sistance, she  suffered  anew  whenever  his  words 
seemed  to  ring  false,  and  now  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes  as  she  looked  out  into  the  sunny  street. 
She  pressed  them  firmly  back,  however,  and 
turned  a  calm  face  towards  her  guest,  who  sat 
playing  with  his  spoon  and  watching  her  with  a 
half  troubled,  half  amused  expression. 

"  I've  composed  my  epitaph,"  he  said  irrele- 
vantly. "  Will  you  please  compose  my  monument." 

"  Oh,  willingly.  But  it  will  be  necessary  to 
know  the  epitaph,  so  that  the  monument  may 
express  the  same  sentiment." 

"  I  shall  have  no  name,"  Arthur  returned. 
"  Only— 

Ukomme  est  mort.     Soit. 
"  How  does  that  strike  you  ?  " 

"Ah,"  she  cried  impulsively,  "how  does  any 
thing  strike  me  ?  You  play  at  being  wretched  as 
sentimental  school  girls  do,  when  in  their  case  it 
is  slate  pencils  and  pickled  limes  and  in  your  case 
it  is  vanity.  If  you  were  half  as  miserable  as  you 
pretend,  you'd  have  blown  your  brains  out  long 
ago,  or  deemed  yourself  the  veriest  craven  alive. 
I've  no  patience  with  such  attitudinizing." 

"You  are  partly  right,"  he  admitted,  "  but  do 
any  of  us  find  the  savor  of  life  so  sweet  as  to 
make  it  worth  while  ?  " 


62  THE  PAGANS. 

Something  in  his  voice,  a  ring  of  what  might  be 
pity  in  his  tone,  humiliated  Helen.  She  suspected 
that  he  thought  her  outburst  arose  from  a 
too  great  fondness  for  himself,  for  grief  at 
parting  and  at  giving  him  up  to  another.  She 
struggled  to  regain  her  calmness  ;  she  felt  the  im- 
possibility of  contradicting  the  belief  which  she 
was  sure  existed  in  his  mind  ;  she  was  conscious 
that  to  say,  "  I  do  not  love  you,"  would  appear  to 
him  proof  incontrovertible  that  the  reverse  was 
true.  Her  throat  contracted  painfully  and  she 
cast  down  her  eyes  lest  the  tears  in  them  should 
be  seen. 

"  The  Caffres,"  Fenton  continued,  after  an  in- 
stant's pause,  "are  said  to  be  so  fond  of  sugar  that 
they  will  eat  a  handful  of  sand  rather  than  lose  a 
grain  or  two  that  has  fallen  to  the  ground ;  it 
seems  to  me  life  is  the  sand  and  joy  in  the  pro- 
portion of  the  sugar.  I'm  not  willing  to  take  the 
sand,  and  I  protest  against  it.  There  is  no  mo- 
rality in  it." 

"There  is  no  morality  in  any  thing  but  death," 
Helen  returned  drearily. 

"  Death  !  "  echoed  Fenton.  "  Do  you  call  that 
moral !  Death  that  crushes  the  emotions,  that 
kills  the  passions,  that  pollutes  the  flesh ;  the 
monster  which  debauches  all  that  is  sacred  in  the 
physical,  that  degrades  to  the  level  of  the  lowest 
all  that  is  high  in  the  intellectual — is  this  your 
idea  of  the  moral  ?  The  coarsest  rioting  of  sen- 


VOLUBLE  AND  SHARP  DISCOURSE.  63 

sual  life  is  sacred  beside  it.  Death  moral  ?  Mon 
Dieu ,  Helen,  how  you  do  abuse  terms  !  " 

Fenton  was  continually  treading  upon  the  dan- 
gerous edge  between  pathos  and  bathos,  between 
impressivencss  and  absurdity.  Had  he  not  pos- 
sessed extremely  sensitive  perceptions  which  en- 
abled him  to  judge  swiftly  and  exactly  of  the 
effect  of  his  declamations,  and  the  keenest  sense 
of  the  ludicrous  that  helped  him  to  turn  into 
ridicule  whatever  could  not  be  made  to  pass  for 
earnest,  much  of  his  extravagant  talk  would  have 
excited  amusement  and,  not  impossibly,  contempt, 
instead  of  producing  the  half  serious  effect  he  de- 
sired. He  could  impart  a  vast  air  of  sincerity  to 
his  speech,  moreover,  and  could  even  for  the 
moment  be  sincere.  In  the  present  case  his 
earnest  and  real  feeling  saved  this  outburst 
from  the  somewhat  theatrical  air  which  the  words 
might  easily  have  had  if  spoken  at  all  artificially. 

"  The  history  of  mankind,"  went  on  the  artist, 
in  a  sort  of  two-fold  consciousness,  deeply  feeling 
on  the  one  hand  what  he  was  saying,  but  on  the 
other  endeavoring  to  direct  the  conversation  to 
generalities  in  which  would  be  lost  the  dangerous 
personal  remarks  which  threatened,  "  the  whole 
history  of  mankind  is  a  protest  against  death  as 
an  insult,  an  outrage.  All  religions  are  only  man- 
kind's defiance  of  death  more  or  less  largely 
phrased." 

"  No,"  Helen   said.      "Not   our  defiance;  our 


64  THE  PAGANS. 

confession  of  a  craven  fear.  I  am  afraid  of  death. 
I  don't  dare  take  my  life." 

"We  are  talking,"  responded  her  companion,  in 
his  turn  leaving  the  table  and  approaching  the 
window,  "  like  a  couple  of  unmitigated  ghouls. 
I  acknowledge  your  right  to  put  aside  your  life  if 
it  bores  you  ;  man  has  at  least  that  one  inaliena- 
ble right.  But  why  should  you  ?  Art  is  left  still." 

"Art,"  she  repeated  with  profound  sadness; 
"  yes,  but  a  woman  is  never  content  with  abstrac- 
tions. She  demands  something  more  definite. 
And,  by  the  way,  Will  came  to  see  me  yesterday." 

"  Yes !     What  did  he  want  ?  " 

"He  said  he  only  came  to  see  how  I  was.  I 
think  he  recognizes  that  now  he  has  come  from 
Europe  our  secret  is  sure  to  leak  out  soon,  and  is 
looking  the  ground  over  to  see  how  it  is  best  to 
behave.  He  was  very  entertaining;  I  never  en- 
joyed him  more  thoroughly." 

"  He's  a  model  husband,"  Fenton  observed 
thoughtfully.  "As  well  as  you  like  each  other, 
I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  see  why  you  don't  live  like 
other  people." 

"  It  is  precisely  because  we  don't  live  like  other 
people,"  was  the  reply,  "  that  we  do  like  each  other 
so  well.  We  are  the  best  of  friends  ;  we  were  the 
worst  possible  husband  and  wife.  I  hated  him 
officially,  and —  There !  Why  must  you  bring  all 
that  up  again  ?  Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead." 

"  But  the  past  won't  bury  its  dead.    It  sits  over 


VOLUBLE  AND  SHARP  DISCOURSE.  65 

their  corpses  like  a  persistent  resurrectionist,  in  a 
fashion  which  is  irresistibly  disheartening.  Did  it 
never  strike  you,  by  the  way,  what  a  droll  carica- 
ture might  be  made  on  that  line  ?  Time  as  a  de- 
crepit old  sexton,  you  know." 

"  So  few  people  can  joke  on  those  subjects  that  it 
would  appeal  to  a  very  limited  audience,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Oh,  that's  true  of  every  thing  that  is  good  for 
any  thing." 

"  Unfortunately  the  converse  is  not  true,  for 
every  thing  appealing  to  a  small  audience  is  by  no 
means  good." 

"  Not  even  marriage  ?" 

"  Still  harping  on  matrimony,"  said  Helen, 
laughing.  "  What  will  you  do  after  the  knot  is 
really  tied  ?  You  speak  in  the  mournful  tone  of 
one  who  reads  '  Lasciatc  ogni  speranza '  upon  his 
wedding  horseshoe." 

"  Oh,  not  quite,"  he  laughed  back,  "  for  after 
marriage  a  man  can  always  amuse  himself,  you 
know,  by  looking  at  any  woman  he  may  meet  and 
fancying  how  much  worse  off  he  might  be  if  he 
had  married  her  instead  of  his  wife." 

"  Well,"  Helen  remarked,  turning,  "  your  con- 
versation is  amusing  and  doubtless  deeply  instruc- 
tive, but  I  must  go  to  the  studio.  My  bas-relief 
will  hardly  complete  itself,  I  suppose,  and  I've  a 
splendid  offer  for  it,  to  decorate  a  house  in  Milton. 
It  is  to  be  paneled  into  the  side  of  an  oak  stair- 
way at  the  back  of  the  main  hall.  Isn't  that  fine?" 


X. 


O,  WICKED  WIT  AND   GIFT. 

Hamlet ;  i. — 5. 

A  NOMALIES  are  doubtless  as  truly  the  product 
/i  of  law  as  results  whose  logic  is  evident,  and 
the  strange  relations  between  Mrs.  Greyson  and 
her  husband  were  therefore  to  be  considered  the 
outcome  of  fixed  causes  from  which  no  other  re- 
sult was  possible. 

Married  when  scarcely  more  than  a  girl,  shy, 
undeveloped  and  ignorant  of  the  world,  Helen 
came  from  a  secluded  life,  which  had  been  pretty 
equally  divided  between  the  library  of  her  dead 
father  and  the  woods  surrounding  the  country  vil- 
lage where  she  lived.  She  had  never  even  fancied 
that  she  loved  Dr.  Ashton  ;  but  she  had  married 
him  as  she  would  have  obeyed  any  other  command 
of  the  stern  aunt  who  had  presided  severely  over 
her  orphaned  childhood.  He,  half-a-dozen  years 
her  senior,  had  been  enamored  of  her  wonderful 
beauty  and  modest  intellectuality  ;  and,  being  ac- 
customed always  to  gratify  the  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment, he  had  married  her  with  a  precipitancy  as 
characteristic  as  it  was  reckless. 

It  was  owing  to  a  certain   mutual  scorn  of  con- 


O,    WICKED   WIT  AND  GIFT.  67 

ventionalities  that  Helen  and  her  husband  at 
length  decided  to  separate.  Without  the  aid  of 
the  law  and  without  scandal,  they  settled  back 
into  single  liberty,  the  wife  taking  again  her  father's 
name.  They  had  spent  their  married  life  abroad, 
where  Dr.  Ashton  had  remained  until  a  short  time 
previous  to  the  opening  of  our  story,  and  as  neither 
husband  nor  wife  had  been  in  their  single  life 
known  in  Boston,  and  as  Helen  was  chary  of  new 
acquaintances,  their  relations  had  thus  far  re- 
mained undiscovered.  Helen,  at  least,  recognized 
how  improbable  it  was  that  this  secrecy  would 
long  remain  inviolate,  but  she  went  quietly  on  her 
way,  letting  events  take  their  own  course. 

Arthur  Fenton  was  an  old  friend  of  her  husband 
whom  Helen  had  met  in  Europe,  but  had  known 
intimately  only  during  her  Boston  life.  She  had 
found  him  sympathetic,  responsive  and  entertain- 
ing, and  as  any  lonely  woman  clings  to  the  com- 
panionship of  an  appreciative  man,  she  had 
clung  to  the  friendship  and  comradeship  of  the 
artist. 

Going  across  the  Common  towards  the  studio 
on  this  sunny  morning,  when  the  air  was  brisk  and 
bracing,  the  naked  trees  clearly  and  delicately  de- 
nned against  the  sky,  Helen's  thoughts  went  back 
to  her  past ;  to  her  shy,  secluded  girlhood,  to  the 
years  of  her  married  life,  and  to  the  way  in  which 
she  had  been  living  since  she  and  her  husband 
parted.  She  reflected  with  a  smile,  half  pity,  half 


68  THE  PAGANS. 

contempt,  of  the  proud,  reticent  girl  who  had  pored 
over  books  and  drawings  in  the  musty,  deserted 
library  at  home,  almost  wondering  if  she  were  the 
same  being.  She  looked  from  the  Joy  Street  mall 
across  the  hollow  which  holds  the  Frog  Pond,  the 
most  charming  view  on  the  Common,  yet  not  even 
the  golden  sparkle  of  the  water  or  the  beautiful 
line  of  the  slope  beyond  could  chase  from  her 
mind  the  picture  of  the  high,  dim  old  room,  lined 
to  the  ceiling  with  book-shelves,  dingy  and  dusty 
from  neglect.  She  seemed  to  hear  still  the  weird 
tapping  of  the  beech-tree  boughs  against  the  tall 
narrow  windows,  and  still  to  smell  odor  of  old 
leather;  she  remembered  vividly  the  dull  dizziness 
that  came  from  stooping  too  long  over  some  vol- 
ume too  heavy  to  hold,  above  which,  half  lying 
upon  the  carpetless  floor,  she  had  bent  with  droop- 
ing golden  curls.  She  remembered,  too,  the  re- 
moteness of  the  real  world  from  the  ideal  sphere 
in  which  her  fancy  placed  her;  how  unimportant 
and  unsubstantial  to  her  had  appeared  the  events 
of  daily  life  as  compared  with  the  incidents  of  the 
world  the  old  books  in  the  musty  library  opened 
to  her.  The  life  of  these  magic  tomes  was  the 
real,  and  that  humdrum  state  through  which  her 
visible  pathway  lay  was  the  dream.  To  the  im- 
aginative girl,  half  child,  half  poet,  her  marriage 
had  prospectively  seemed  merely  an  accident  of  the 
trivial  outside  existence  which  surrounded  with- 
out penetrating  her  true  being;  and  the  sharpness 


O,    WICKED   WIT  AND  GIFT.  69 

of  the  rude  awakening  from  this  childish  mis- 
conception still  pierced  the  woman's  proud 
soul. 

No  woman  recalls  her  childhood  without  re- 
gret, and  despite  the  philosophy  she  had  culti- 
vated, Helen  felt  a  deep  sadness  as  the  old  days, 
somber  and  dull  though  they  had  been,  rose 
before  her.  She  hurried  her  step  a  little  as  if  to 
escape  her  past,  when  a  pleasant  voice  at  her 
elbow  said :  . 

"  Good  morning,  Helen.  Upon  what  wicked- 
ness are  you  bent  now.  You  go  too  fast  to  be  on 
a  good  errand." 

"  Good  morning,  Will,"  she  answered,  without 
turning,  for  the  voice  brought  the  speaker  before 
her  mental  vision  as  plainly  as  her  eyes  could 
have  done.  "I  was  just  thinking  of  you,  and  of 
the  days  when  you  found  me  at  home." 

"  Yes."  responded  Dr.  Ashton,  "  what  were  you 
thinking  of  them?" 

"  Nothing  very  pleasant,"  she  answered  with  a 
sigh.  "  What  a  gorgeous  day  it  is.  Arthur  has 
been  breakfasting  with  me." 

"Arthur  is  going  to  be  married,"  remarked  her 
companion  good  humoredly.  "  I've  just  been  out 
to  buy  him  a  wedding  present." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Oh,  something  he  chose  himself.  It  is  not 
safe  to  tell  you,  though." 

"  Haven't  I  proved  my  discretion  ?  "  Helen  said 


70  THE  PAGANS. 

lightly.  "  I  thought  that  by  this  time  you'd  be 
willing  to  trust  me  with  your  most  deadly 
secrets." 

"  This  is  a  deadly  secret,  indeed,"  he  returned, 
taking  from  his  pocket  a  small  morocco  case. 

"  Oh,  jewelry,"  Helen  said,  with  an  accent  of 
disappointment.  "  I  should  never  have  suspected 
you  of -such  commonplaceness,  Will." 

"  Not  jewelry ;  a  jewel,"  retorted  Dr.  Ashton, 
opening  the  case. and  displaying  a  tiny  vial. 

"Will!"  Helen  exclaimed,  stopping  suddenly 
and  catching  her  husband  by  the  arm,  "you  won't 
give  him  that  ?  " 

"Why  not?  I  promised  him  long  ago  that  I'd 
get  it  for  him,  and  he  particularly  asked  for  it  as 
a  wedding-gift." 

"  Oh,  Will ;  don't  do  it !  He'll  use  it  sometime 
when  he's  blue  ;  he'll " 

"  Nonsense,"  responded  the  physician,  restoring 
the  case  to  his  pocket.  "  I've  diagnosed  his  case 
perfectly.  He  isn't  very  robust,  he's  infernally 
sensitive,  and  he's  no  end  morbid.  He  fancies  he 
may  want  to  kill  himself,  and  I  dare  say  he  will 
have  leanings  that  way.  Most  of  us  do.  He  has 
wanted  to  a  good  many  times  before  now,  and  he 
is  likely  to  again,  but  he  won't  do  it.  He's  too 
soft-hearted.  He  might  get  up  steam  enough  as 
far  as  courage  goes,  but  he'd  never  forget  other 
people  and  their  opinion.  He  couldn't  bear  to 
hurt  others,  and  still  less  could  he  bear  the  idea 


0,    WICKED   WIT  AND  GIFT.  7 1 

of  their  blaming  him.  He  is  precisely  the  man 
who  cannot  take  his  own  life." 

"But  what  puts  it  into  his  head  just  now? 
Why  should  he  marry  if  he  dreads  it  so?" 

"  It  is  all  of  a  piece  with  his  morbidness.  He 
is  really  in  love  with  Miss  Caldwell,  I  think,  but 
he  has  brooded  over  the  matter  as  he  broods  over 
every  thing,  and  seeing  the  uncertain  nature  of 
matrimony,  he  like  a  wise  man  provides  for  con- 
tingencies. There  may  be  something  behind  that 
I  don't  know  of,  but  I  think  not.  He'll  feel 
easier  if  he  has  this,  and  I  am  honestly  doing  him 
a  favor,  if  it  isn't  in  the  way  he  thinks." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  persisted  Helen,  "but  1  cbo 
wish  you  wouldn't  do  it.  How  would  his  bride 
feel  if  she  knew  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  her,"  Dr.  Ashton  returned  coolly, 
"  so  of  course  I  can't  tell  how  sensible  she  is ;  but 
in  any  case  I  can  trust  Arthur's  discretion." 

"She's  orthodox,"  said  Helen,  "or,  no,  I  think 
she  is  not  so  bad  as  that ;  but  she  would  regard 
the  idea  of  suicide  as  unspeakably  wicked.  At 
least  I  think  so ;  I  never  saw  her  but  once.  .Oh,  I 
do  hate  to  have  Arthur  marry  her.  It's  dreadful !  " 

"  Of  course  ;  it's  dreadful  to  think  of  any  man's 
marrying,  for  that  matter,"  he  returned  with  a 
smile,  "  but  he  is  a  man  who  was  sure  to  do  it 
sooner  or  later." 

"  He's  a  man  of  so  much  principle,"  Helen 
mused,  half  aloud. 


72  THE  PAGANS. 

"  Principle,"  sneered  her  companion  laughingly, 
"  principle  is  only  formulated  policy." 

"  I  am  dreadfully  tired  of  epigrams,"  sighed 
Helen  as  they  walked  down  West  street. 
"  Whether  Arthur  learned  the  habit  of  you  or 
you  of  him  I  don't  know;  but  the  pair  of  you 
are  enough  to  corrupt  all  Boston.  I  do  wish 
you'd  give  me  that  case.  I'm  sure  I  need  it  far 
more  than  Arthur  does.  He's  going  to  be  married, 
his  pictures  are  praised  and  are  beginning  to  sell, 
he  has  life  before  him  and  every  thing  to  live  for, 
while  I  have  nothing." 

"  Life  is  before  you,  too,"  answered  her  hus- 
band gravely,  putting  his  hand  upon  her  arm 
to  prevent  her  flying  under  the  wheels  of  a 
carriage  which  in  her  absorption  she  had  not 
noticed.  "  Look  here,  Helen ;  it  wouldn't  be  any 
better  if  Arthur  wanted  to  marry  you.  You  are 
too  melancholy  alone  without  having  him  to  push 
you  deeper  into  the  slough  of  despond." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Will,"  was  the  quiet  re- 
sponse. "  I  am  fond  of  Arthur,  very  fond,  in- 
deed ;  but  not  in  that  way.  I  am  a  fool  to  grieve 
about  his  marriage  ;  I  own  that,  though  after  all 
I've  lived  through  I  ought  to  be  too  hardened  to 
care.  But  you  must  acknowledge  that  it  isn't  very 
pleasant  for  me  to  see  him  deliberately  going 
away  to  marry  a  woman  who  would  consider  me 
a  Bohemian,  and  very  likely  any  thing  but  respect- 
able, because  you  and  I  choose  to  be  comfortable 


O,    WICKED   WIT  AND  GIFT.  73 

apart  instead  of  miserable  together.  If  I  were 
not  so  utterly  alone  in  the  world,  losing  a  friend 
would  not  be  so  great  a  matter,  perhaps ;  but  he 
is  all  I  have  now,  Will." 

"  It  is  hard,  old  lady ;  that's  a  fact.  I  wish  I 
could  straighten  things  out  for  you,  but  I  don't 
see  how  I  can."  • 

"  No,"  Helen  said  drearily,  "  nobody  can." 


XL 

WHOM  THE  FATES  HAVE  MARKED. 

Comedy  of  Errors  ;  i. — I. 

UPON  entering  the  small  studio  where  her  bas- 
relief  stood,  Helen  found  Herman  there  before 
her.  He  had  removed  the  wet  cloths  from  the 
clay  and  was  examining  the  work  with  close  at- 
tention. 

"  You  need  a  model  for  this  figure,"  he  said, 
indicating  the  month  of  May.  "  You  must  take 
that  turn  of  the  shoulder  from  nothing  but  life." 

Helen  came  and  stood  beside  him,  looking  at 
the  work.  The  instinct  of  the  artist  for  the  mo- 
ment  superseded  all  other  feelings  in  her  mind, 
and  she  forgot  alike  her  own  troubles  and  the  ill- 
omened  gift  with  which  her  husband  purposed 
remembering  the  nuptials  of  her  friend. 

The  figure  of  May  of  which  Herman  spoke  was 
that  of  a  beautiful  young  girl  casting  backward  a 
wistful  look  at  the  fallen  flowers  which  she  had 
dropped  but  might  not  stay  to  gather  up  again. 
The  splendid  movement  of  the  youthful  figure, 
thrown  forward  in  her  running,  but  with  one 
shoulder  turned  toward  the  spectator,  so  that  the 
upper  portion  of  the  beautiful  bosom  was  seen, 


WHOM  THE  FA  TES  HA  VE  MARKED.  75 

formed  one  of  the  finest  details  of  the  composi- 
tion. 

"  Yes,"  the  sculptor  said  again,  "  you  must 
have  a  model  for  that,  and  I  have  one  coming 
this  morning.  To  be  honest,  I  came  up  here 
hoping  you'd  need  her.  I  believe  she  is  a  good 
girl,  and  I  do  not  like  the  idea  of  her  being 
about  among  the  studios." 

He  went  on  to  speak  of  the  figure,  adding 
suggestions  of  treatment,  feeling  and  posing ;  and 
as  he  talked  he  was  conscious  of  needlessly  pro- 
longing the  conversation  for  the  mere  pleasure 
of  being  near  this  woman,  and  of  secretly  cher- 
ishing some  vague  feeling  that  not  only  would 
Ninitta  be  safe  under  Mrs.  Greyson's  guardian- 
ship, but  that  some  solution  of  the  complexities 
in  which  he  found  himself  involved  would  result 
from  bringing  together  the  two  women  so  closely 
connected  with  his  life. 

He  went  away  into  his  own  studio  at  length, 
but  Helen  had  scarcely  got  fairly  to  work  before 
he  reappeared  with  Ninitta. 

Ninitta  was  much  the  same  in  outward  appear- 
ance as  upon  the  previous  day,  but  between  this 
morning's  mental  state  and  that  of  yesterday 
there  was  a  great  gulf.  The  Italian's  character 
was  a  strange  if  not  wholly  unique  mixture  of 
simplicity  and  worldly  wisdom.  All  her  experi- 
ences, her  life  as  a  model  in  various  parts  of  the 
world,  her  hardships  and  successes,  while  teach- 


76  THE  PAGANS. 

ing  her  only  too  sharply  the  follies  and  vices  of 
mankind,  had  never  for  an  instant  shaken  her 
faith  in  Grant  Herman.  He  was  her  god.  It  is 
even  doubtful  if  any  thing  he  could  have  done 
would  have  destroyed  her  belief  in  his  integrity 
and  nobility  of  soul.  When  he  left  her,  she  ac- 
quiesced, it  is  true,  but  with  a  wild  passion  of 
anguish.  She  knew  he  misjudged,  but  she  chose 
to  phrase  it  to  herself  that  he  was  deceived ;  his 
rashness  and  hot-headedness  were  to  her  only  so 
many  fresh  evidences  of  his  greatness  of  charac- 
ter. She  was  not  the  first  woman  who  has  vaguely 
felt  that  unreasoning  jealousy  and  passion  are 
admirable  or  even  essential  attributes  of  virility, 
and  who  has  worshiped  a  man  as  much  for  his 
faults  as  for  his  virtues. 

To  the  dream  of  meeting  Herman  with  the  proofs 
that  he  had  been  deceived,  Ninitta  had  clung  un- 
yieldingly through  the  dreary  years  since  the 
death  of  Hoffmeir,  who  had  been  kind  to  her  for 
the  sake  of  his  shattered  friendship  with  Herman, 
and  for  the  sake,  tqo,  of  his  own  hopeless  love  for 
herself.  It  was  from  mingled  shyness  and  pride 
that  Ninitta  had  waited  for  a  summons  from  the 
sculptor  after  she  had  reached  Boston  ;  but  when 
she  had  at  last  gone  to  his  studio  it  was  with  keen 
emotion.  She  had  not  considered  that  both  her- 
self and  her  old-time  lover  had  changed  in  the 
seven  years  of  separation.  She  had  not  reflected 
that  believing  her  false  he  could  not  but  have  en- 


WHOM  THE  FA  TES  HA  VE  MARKED.    ^^ 

deavored  to  forget  her.  She  could  not  know  that 
contact  with  the  world,  if  it  had  not  made  him 
ashamed  of  his  youthful  enthusiasm,  had  at  least 
showed  him  how  the  marriage  he  had  con- 
templated would  have  appeared  in  the  eyes  of 
worldly  wisdom,  and  had  so  educated  him  that 
reason  was  less  helpless  before  passion  than  of 
old. 

But  to-day  Ninitta  was  a  different  woman, 
changed  by  the  agony  of  a  night  into  which  had 
been  compressed  the  bitterness  of  years.  She  had 
been  too  sharply  wounded  at  being  greeted  by  a 
hand-shake  in  place  of  the  too  well  remembered 
kisses,  with  commonplace  kind  inquiries  instead  of 
an  embrace,  not  to  realize  at  least  how  entirely  the  re- 
lations between  herself  and  Herman  were  changed. 
She  did  not  understand  the  alteration,  it  is  true. 
To  do  that  would  have  required  not  only  a  knowl- 
edge of  facts  of  which  she  could  have  no  cogni- 
zance, but  far  keener  powers  of  reason  than  were 
centered  in  Ninitta's  shapely  head.  Only  of  one 
thing  she  was  sure  ;  there  the  instinct  of  her  sex 
stood  her  in  good  stead.  She  was  convinced  that 
some  other  woman  had  won  the  sculptor's  love 
from  her.  When  she  came  into  Helen's  studio 
this  morning  she  watched  sharply  for  some  token 
which  should  show  her  the  relations  in  which  the 
two  artists  stood  to  each  other ;  but  she  could  de- 
tect nothing  significant.  Mrs.  Greyson  was  intent 
only  upon  her  work,  and  whatever  the  sculptor 


78  THE  PAGANS. 

may  have  felt  at  the  meeting  of  Helen  and  Ni- 
nitta,  he  made  no  outward  sign. 

The  model  showed  a  quickness  of  comprehen- 
sion in  taking  the  pose  required,  and  the  shoulder 
she  bared  was  of  so  exquisite  mold  that  Helen's 
keenest  artistic  powers  were  aroused.  Ninitta 
understood  the  art  of  posing  as  a  painter  knows 
the  use  of  brush  and  colors ;  she  had  for  it  an  in- 
born capacity  impossible  except  in  the  child  of  an 
art  land.  Moved  by  the  inspiration  of  that  most 
beautiful  bust,  Mrs.  Greyson  worked  enthusiasti- 
cally, scarcely  noticing  when  her  master  left  the 
room,  an  indication  of  indifference  which  the 
model  did  r.ot  fail  to  note. 


XII. 

WHAT  TIME  SHE  CHANTED. 

Hamlet ;  iv. — 7. 

IT  was  February,  and  the  night  but  one  before 
the  day  fixed  for  Arthur  Fenton's  marriage. 
He  was  spending  the  evening  with  Mrs.  Greyson, 
and  it  chanced  that  Grant  Herman  and  Fred 
Rangely  were  also  there.  The  sculptor  went  sel- 
dom to  the  house  of  his  pupil,  and  when  he  did 
visit  her,  he  satisfied  some  fine,  secret  delicacy  by 
taking  always  a  friend  with  him.  Helen  was  sufH° 
ciently  Bohemian  or  sufficiently  unworldly  to  care 
little  if  people  criticised  her  way  of  living.  She 
had  inherited  a  small  property  which  made  her 
comfortable  and  independent ;  and  she  declined 
being  hampered  by  a  chaperon. 

"  My  art  is  my  chaperon,"  she  wrote  to  an 
elderly  relative  who  wished  to  come  to  Boston 
and  matronize  her.  Cf  A  woman  who  is  daring 
enough  to  be  an  artist  is  regarded  as  bold  enough 
to  take  care  of  herself,  I  suppose.  At  least  nobody 
troubles  me,  and  I  ask  nothing  more." 

On  the  present  occasion  Arthur  Fenton  asked 
leave  to  light  his  cigar,  and  although  Herman  felt 
this  something  of  a  profanation,  it  was  not  long 


8o  THE  PAGANS. 

before  he  and  Rangely  added  their  wreaths  to 
the  smoke  garlands  which  hung  upon  the  air,  and 
had  not  the  hostess  become  somewhat  accustomed 
to  tobacco  in  foreign  ateliers,  it  is  to  be  doubted 
if  she  could  have  complacently  endured  the  fumes 
which  arose. 

All  subjects  of  heaven  and  earth  came  drifting 
into  the  talk,  and  at  length  something  evoked  from 
Rangely  his  opinion  of  Emerson. 

"  Emerson  was  great,"  he  said,  "  Emerson  often 
recalled  Goethe  in  Goethe's  cooler  and  more  in- 
tellectual moods ;  but  Emerson  lacked  the  lofti- 
ness of  vice  ;  he  was  eternally  narrow." 

"  *  The  loftiness  of  vice,'  "  echoed  the  hostess. 
"  What  does  that  mean  ?  It  sounds  vicious 
enough." 

"  Emerson,"  Rangely  returned,  "  knew  only 
half  of  life.  He  never  had  any  conception  of  the 
passionate  longing  for  vice  per  se;  the  thrill,  the 
glow  which  comes  to  some  men  at  the  splendid 
caress  of  sin  in  her  most  horrible  shape.  Do  you 
see  what  I  mean  ?  He  couldn't  imagine  the 
ecstasy  that  may  lie  in  mere  foulness." 

"  No,"  replied  Helen,  "  I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite 
see.  Though  I  am  sure  I  ought  to  be  shocked. 
Do  you  mean  that  he  should  have  been  vicious  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not ;  but  it  was  his  limitation  not  to 
be  tempted ;  not  to  be  able  to  project  himself  into 
a  personality  which  riots  in  wickedness  far  more 
intensely  than  a  saint  follows  righteousness." 


WHAT  TIME  SHE  CHANTED.  8 1 

"  If  you  mean  that  he  could  not  have  been 
wicked  if  he  tried,  that,  I  own,  was  in  a  sense  a 
limitation." 

"  Yes  ;  and  a  fatal  one.  No  man  can  be  whofly 
great  who  understands  only  one  half  of  human 
impulses." 

"  But  what  do  you  mean  by  wickedness?  "  de- 
manded Herman,  a  little  combatively. 

"  Oh,"  laughed  Rangely,  "  I'm  not  to  be  en- 
trapped into  giving  metaphysical  and  theological 
definitions.  I  mean  what  we  are  expected  to  call 
wickedness,  conventionally  speaking.  I've  an  old 
cad  of  a  parson  in  my  new  play  and  I  am  trying 
to  decide  if  it  will  do  to  have  him  advocate  a  grand 
scheme  for  reforming  the  world  by  reversing  defi- 
nitions and  calling  those  things  men  choose  to  do 
virtues,  and  dubbing  whatever  man  detests,  vices." 

"  That  is  rather  more  clever  than  orthodox," 
Helen  laughed.  "  How  is  your  play  getting  on, 
Mr.  Rangely?" 

"  Oh,  fairish,  thank  you.  The  trouble  is  that 
the  drama  went  out  of  fashion  long  ago.  First 
they  replaced  it  by  dresses  and  scenery,  but  now 
every  thing  has  given  way  to  souvenir  programmes  ; 
so  I've  got  to  write  up  to  a  souvenir  or  I  sha'n't 
make  any  thing  out  of  the  play." 

"  I  hoped  you  were  above  such  mercenary  con- 
siderations." 

"  I  am  trying  to  make  myself  so,"  he  retorted. 
"  I  think  about  three  successful  plays  would  be 


82  THE  PAGANS. 

tonic  enough  to  bring  my  conscience  up  to  proper 
art  levels." 

Herman  had  taken  little  part  in  this  colloquy, 
smoking  in  silence,  and  regarding  his  com- 
panions. Fenton  had  thus  far  been  even  more 
quiet,  scarcely  contributing  a  word  to  the  conver- 
sation ;  and  the  sculptor's  thoughts  turned  upon 
the  handsome  young  fellow,  sitting  in  one  of  his 
favorite  twisted  attitudes  in  a  German  chair,  his 
beardless  face  paler  than  usual,  though  a  red  spot 
glowed  in  either  cheek,  and  his  dilated  pupils  be- 
trayed his  excitement.  He  was  smoking  steadily, 
but  with  little  apparent  knowledge  of  either  his 
cigar  or  his  surroundings. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  mused  Herman.  "  A  cheer- 
ful looking  man  for  a  bridegroom  he  is.  If  he 
were  going  to  the  scaffold  he  could  hardly  seem 
more  melancholy.  What  in  the  world  is  the  mat- 
ter with  him  ?  I  wonder  if  he  has  been  dragged 
into  a  marriage  he  doesn't  like.  How  Mrs.  Grey- 
son  watches  him." 

Helen  was  indeed  watching  Fenton  closely, 
although  to  a  less  keen  observer  than  Herman  her 
surveillance  would  hardly  have  been  apparent. 
She,  too,  was  thinking  of  Fenton's  downcast  air, 
and  knowing  him  more  intimately  than  did  the 
sculptor,  she  reasoned  less  doubtfully,  although 
perhaps  not  more  accurately  than  the  latter  con- 
cerning what  was  passing  in  the  mind  of  her  silent 
friend. 


WHAT  TIME  SHE  CHANTED.  83 

"  He  surely  loves  Miss  Caldwell,"  she  thought, 
"  but  he  is  so  foolish.  He  is  thinking  now  that 
he  will  never  meet  these  comrades  again  as  an  un- 
hampered man.  He  feels  just  now  all  he  is  giving 
up.  I  should  like  him  better  to  remember  what 
he  is  gaining.  Are  all  men  inherently  selfish,  I 
wonder.  It  is  well  for  Miss  Caldwell's  peace  of 
mind  that  she  cannot  see  him  now.  Perhaps 
when  he  is  with  her  he  sees  only  the  other  side  ; 
I  am  sure  I  hope  so." 

She  turned  away  with  a  sigh,  and  saw  Herman 
looking  at  her.  Their  eyes  met  in  one  of  those 
brief  glances  of  intelligence  which  serve  as  fine 
fibers  to  knit  people  together. 

The  conversation  soon  turned  upon  the  opinion 
a  certain  critic  had  expressed  concerning  a  picture 
then  on  exhibition. 

"  Bah  ! "  cried  Fenton  suddenly ;  "  what  does  he 
know  about  art  ? — he  is  bow-legged  !  " 

"  Hallo  !  "  exclaimed  Rangely,  "  have  you 
waked  up?  I  thought  we  were  safe  from  you  for 
the  whole  evening." 

"  It  is  never  safe  to  count  on  his  silence," 
Herman  said.  "  He  has  probably  been  meditating 
some  stinging  epigram  against  woman.  We  shall 
have  something  wild  directly." 

"  No  ;  I've  nothing  to  say  against  women  now," 
Arthur  returned,  rising,  "  for  I  want  Mrs.  Greyson 
to  sing.  I  wish  you'd  stop  poisoning  the  air  with 
those  confounded  cigarettes,  Fred.  The  use  of 


84  THE  PAGANS. 

cigarettes  degrades  smoking  to  the  level  of  the 
small  vices,  and  I  object  to  it  on  principle." 

He  opened  the  piano  as  he  spoke,  and  without 
demur  Helen  allowed  him  to  lead  her  to  the 
instrument. 

"  If  you  do  not  mind,"  she  said  a  little  diffi- 
dently, turning  to  her  guests  after  she  had  seated 
herself,  "  I  should  like  to  have  the  gas  lowered  a 
trifle.  It  may  seem  a  little  sentimental,  but  I  do 
not  like  to  be  looked  at  too  keenly  when  I  sing." 

The  flames  of  the  gas  jets  were  dimmed,  and 
Helen  struck  a  few  soft  chords.  Herman  listened 
intently.  He  had  heard  Fenton  praise  Mrs. 
Greyson's  singing,  but  he  was  entirely  unpre- 
pared for  what  was  to  .come,  and  he  never  forgot 
the  thrill  of  that  experience. 

An  unpretending,  flowing  prelude  ;  then  sud- 
denly the  tones  of  the  singer. 

Helen's  voice  was  a  rich,  fibrous  mezzo-soprano  ; 
and  the  music  she  sang,  half  chant,  half  melody, 
was  evidently  an  improvisation.  The  words  were 
the  exquisite  song  which  opens  Shelley's  Hellas  : 

I  strew  these  opiate  flowers 
On  thy  restless  pillow, — 
They  were  plucked  from  Orient  bowers, 
By  the  Indian  billow. 
Be  thy  sleep 
Calm  and  deep, 
Like  theirs  who  fell ;  not  ours  who  weep. 

Away,  unlovely  dreams  ! 
Away,  false  shapes  of  sleep  ! 


WHAT  TIME  SHE  CHANTED.  85 

Be  his,  as  Heaven  seems, 

Clear  and  bright  and  deep  ! 
Soft  as  love  and  calm  as  death, 
Sweet  as  summer  night  without  a  breath. 

Sleep  !  sleep  !     My  song  is  Irden 

With  the  soul  of  slumber  ; 
It  was  sung  by  a  Samian  maiden 
Whose  lover  was  of  the  number 
Who  now  keep 
That  calm  sleep 
Whence  none  may  wake  ;  where  none  shall  weep. 

I  touch  thy  temples  pale  ! 

I  breathe  my  soul  on  thee  ! 
And  could  my  prayers  avail, 

All  my  joy  should  be 
Dead,  and  I  would  live  to  weep, 
So  thou  might'st  win  one  hour  of  quiet  sleep  ! 

It  is  difficult  to  convey  the  effect  of  this  song 
upon  its  hearers.  The  strangeness,  the  uncon- 
ventionality  of  the  recitative,  the  wonderful,  sad 
beauty  of  the  poem,  the  dim  light  through 
which  Helen's  vibrating,  passionate  voice  thrilled, 
all  helped  to  impress  the  hearers.  There  was  a 
personal  quality  about  the  chant  which  made  it 
seem  like  a  direct  appeal  from  the  singer  to  the 
heart  of  each  listener.  It  came  to  each  as  a 
spontaneous  outflowing  of  the  singer's  innermost 
self;  a  confidence  made  in  mystic  wise,  sacred  and- 
inviolable,  and  setting  him  honored  by  receiving 
it  forever  from  the  common  multitude  of  men.  It 
was  an  appeal  to  some  unspoken  and  unspeakable 


86  THE  PAGANS. 

bond  of  fealty,  which  made  the  pulses  throb  and 
great  emotions  stir  in  the  breast.  Before  hearing 
one  would  be  stubbornly  incredulous  of  the  pos- 
sibility of  his  being  so  deeply  affected ;  afterward 
he  would  remember  how  he  had  been  moved  with 
wonder  and  longing. 

Especially  was  Grant  Herman  much  moved. 
Thoughts  came  into  his  mind  of  the  old  min- 
strels chanting  to  their  harps ;  he  seemed  to  hear 
Sappho  singing  again  in  the  gardens  of  Mytilene  ; 
this  was  the  woman  he  loved,  and  he  felt  him- 
self as  never  before  surrounded  palpably  by  her 
presence.  The  improvisation  was  a  part  of  her- 
self as  no  other  music  could  have  been  ;  and  in 
some  subtle,  sensuous  way,  the  lover  seemed  for 
the  moment  to  be  one  with  his  beloved.  His  eyes 
filled  with  tears  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  and  he  shrank 
back  into  the  shadow  lest  some  of  his  friends 
should  detect  the  glad,  salt  drops  which  no  eyes 
but  hers  had  a  right  to  see. 


XIIi. 

THE  GREAT  ASSAY  OF  ART. 

Macbeth  ;  iv. — 3. 

A  HUSH  followed  the  conclusion  of  Mrs.  Grey- 
son's  song. 

No  one  wished  to  speak  what  all  felt,  and  when 
the  silence  was  broken,  it  was  with  talk  of  the 
poet  rather  than  of  the  singer.  To  the  singing 
they  came  only  by  slow  degrees,  and  over  it,  when 
at  length  their  admiration  found  speech,  they 
passed  lightly. 

One  thing  which  seemed  to  be  effected  by  the 
music  was  the  awakening  of  Fenton  from  his 
gloomy  reverie.  He  began  to  talk  in  his  most  ex- 
travagant and  whimsical  style,  answering  every 
question  instantly,  if  with  no  especial  care  con- 
cerning the  relevancy  of  his  replies. 

"  What  nonsense  it  is,"  he  exclaimed,  "  to  talk 
of  any  man's  originating  any  thing.  Why,  when 
even  Adam  couldn't  be  made  without  material, 
what  are  we,  his  descendants,  that  we  should  hope 
to  create  ?  The  authors  of  this  old  wisdom  that 
we  revamp  to-day  copied  somebody  further  back, 
and  those  in  turn  put  down  what  the  masses  felt ; 
collected  the  foam  which  gathered  on  the  yeasty 


88  THE  PAGANS. 

waves  of  their  age.  Every  truth  comes  to  the 
people  first  if  they  could  only  recognize  it  when 
it  comes.  It  is  evolved  by  the  friction  of  the 
masses,  just  as  a  fire  is  set  by  the  rubbing  together 
of  tree-boughs  in  primeval  forests,  and  the  dusky 
redman  incontinently  roasted  in  his  uncontami- 
nated  innocence.  The  longer  I  live  the  less  faith 
I  have  that  a  man  evolves  any  thing  from  his 
inner  consciousness.  Fancies  are  only  the  lies  of 
the  mendacious  brain,  which  perceives  one  thing 
and  declares  to  us  another." 

"  Go  slow,  Fenton,"  interrupted  Herman,  "  you 
know  our  poor  wits  are  apt  to  be  dazzled  by  too 
much  brilliancy." 

"  The  age/'  Fenton  rattled  on,  "  blooms  once 
into  a  great  man  as  an  aloe  into  a  crown  of 
bloom." 

"  Right  in  there,'  broke  in  Rangely,  who  longed 
fora  share  in  the  conversation,  "just  consider  how 
necessary  it  Is  that  every  art  producer  shall  be  in 
sympathy  with  the  human  life  about  him.  That 
he  should  take  the  best  wherever  it  is  to  be  found. 
There's  a  miserable  sentiment  about  shutting  one's 
self  up  in  some  dark  corner,  and  producing  some 
tremendous  thing.  Don't  you  know  how  many 
New  York  and  Boston  artists  have  gone  to  Europe 
and  hermetically  sealed  themselves  up  somewhere 
to  ferment  into  greatness  like  a  jug  of  cider  turn- 
ing into  vinegar  in  a  farmer's  cellar  ?  " 

"That's  what  made   Hunt  such  a  big  fellow," 


THE  GREA  T  ASSA  Y  OF  ART.  89 

Herman  interposed;  " because  he  took  the  good 
wherever  it  offered." 

"  But  that  depends  upon  whether  a  man  goes 
direct  to  Nature  for  inspiration,"  declared  Fenton, 
"  or  sets  himself  to  get  a  living  by  filching  the 
good  things  his  neighbors  have  won  from  her." 

"  Hunt  did  go  to  nature ;  that  is  just  where  he 
was  great." 

"  I  think,"  said  Fred,  laughingly, "  that  you  will 
appreciate  the  mood  in  which  I  once  wrote  a  pref- 
ace. I  planned  a  great  metaphysical  and  philo- 
sophical work — I  was  a  good  deal  younger  than  I 
am  now — and  the  preface  was  to  be,  '  As  to  the 
originality  of  these  ideas,  I  haVe  nothing  more  to 
say  than  that  I  do  not  remember  that  they  have 
ever  been  printed  with  my  name  on  the  title-page.' 
Of  course,  after  that  declaration,  I  felt  at  liberty 
to  take  any  thing  I  wanted  from  any  where ;  but, 
unluckily,  my  book  never  got  beyond  the  preface." 

"  I'm  glad  you  had  the  sense  to  stop  there,"  de- 
clared Arthur.  "  I  forgive  tfye  preface,  but  I 
could  never  have  forgiven  the  book." 

Helen  rose  from  her  seat  at  the  piano  and 
turned  up  the  gas  a  little.  The  effect  for  which 
the  light  had  been  lowered  was  secured,  and  it  was 
better,  she  recognized,  to  give  to  her  singing  a 
certain  isolation,  which  must  be  done  before  the 
conversation  became  so  general  that  the  change 
from  gloom  to  light  would  not  be  noticed. 

She  wore  that  evening  a  gray  silk  with  black 


po  THE  PAGANS. 

lace,  a  slight  turning  away  showing  the  whiteness 
of  her  beautiful  throat.  Her  jewels  were  cats'- 
eyes. 

"  Do  you  wear  your  cats'-eyes  in  honor  of  the 
cat-headed  deity  of  the  Pagans,  Mrs.  Greyson  ?  " 
Rangely  asked,  as  she  paused  near  his  chair,  watch- 
ing a  burner  which  seemed  disposed  to  flicker. 

"  No,"  returned  she,  smiling.  "  I  am  no  fol- 
lower of  your  Pasht ;  a  goddess  of  '  winged  words ' 
attracts  me  less  than  a  deity  whose  province  is  the 
sacred  sphere  of  silence.  My  dress  is  of  Mr.  Fen- 
ton's  designing.  He  is  deeply  versed  in  the  sub- 
ject of  clothes.  I  even  suspect  him  of  being  the 
true  author  of  '  Sartor  Resartus!  " 

"  That  brings  up  my  pet  abomination,"  Fenton 
observed,  with  emphasis.  "  I  do  hate  Carlyle. 
I've  even  lain  awake  nights  to  think  how  I'd  like 
to  pound  his  head.  The  self-conceited,  self-centered, 
self-adoring  old  humbug !  He  was  the  sham  par 
excellence  of  the  nineteenth  century,  this  century 
of  shams." 

"  It's  something  to  be  at  the  top  of  the  heap  in 
anything,"  interpolated  Herman,  "even  in  shams." 

"  The  trouble  with  Carlyle,"  Fenton  continued, 
"  besides  his  enormous  egotism,  was  that  he  never 
got  beyond  the  whim  that  the  truth  is  something 
absolute.  He  could  not  abide  the  idea  that  it  is 
merely  a  relative  thing  and  must  be  treated  as 
such.  If  he'd  got  above  the  mass  of  cloudy  vapor 
he  called  truth,  he  might  have  gained  a  glimpse 


THE  GREA  T  ASS  A  Y  OF  ART.  91 

of  real  sunlight ;  but  his  aggressive  self-conceit 
clogged  his  wings.  Don't  you  recognize  that  a  lie 
is  often  truer  than  the  truth  ?  "  he  ran  on,  sitting 
up  in  his  chair  and  speaking  more  rapidly ;  "  that 
where  the  truth  will  often  produce  an  erroneous 
impression,  a  lie  will  convey  a  correct  one  ?  that 
to  be  true  to  the  spirit  it  is  often  necessary  to  vio- 
late the  letter  ?  " 

"  Your  patron  saint  should  be  the  god  of  false- 
hood," Helen  said  lightly.  "  I  fear  your  allegiance 
to  Pasht  is  not  very  sincere." 

"Ah  !  but  it  is,"  retorted  he,  quickly.  "  My  al- 
legiance is  to  the  goddess  of  '  winged  words ' ;  to 
the  glorious  mother  of  fictitious  speech  ;  to  Pasht, 
the  goddess  of  splendid,  golden  lying.  A  lie  is 
only  the  truth  agreeably  and  effectively  told. 
Vive  la  faussett  /  " 

"  Doubtless  each  interprets  Pasht's  attributes 
according  to  his  own  light,"  Herman  observed,  a 
little  grimly. 

He  was  only  half-pleased  with  Fenton's  badin- 
age. But  the  latter,  apparently,  did  not  feel  the 
thrust. 

"  Let  him  alone,"  Helen  said,  "  he  believes  in 
nothing;  he  is  a  genuine  Pagan." 

"  You  are  wrong  in  your  idea,"  was  Fenton's 
swift  reply.  "  A  true  Pagan  must  have  a  belief  in 
some  god  to  take  from  his  shoulders  the  burden 
of  personal  responsibility,  or  he  cannot  be  joyous 
as  a  Pagan  should.  However,  to-night  I  make 


92  THE  PAGANS. 

myself  believe  that  I  believe  something,  so  it 
comes  to  much  the  same  thing." 

Helen  turned  and  looked  at  him,  attracted  by 
some  subtle  quality  in  his  voice. 

He  was  sitting  sidewise  in  his  chair,  holding  an 
ivory  paper-knife  in  his  slender  fingers.  His 
cheeks  burned,  his  eyes  were  bright,  his  lips  red. 
He  had  shaken  off  the  depression  which  oppressed 
him  earlier  in  the  evening.  An  air  of  joyous, 
quivering  excitement  pervaded  him.  He  threw 
up  his  head  with  a  characteristic  gesture,  and 
looked  about  him  like  one  who  has  conquered  in 
some  desperate  conflict. 

"  Come,"  the  hostess  said,  wondering  in  what 
inward  struggle  he  had  come  off  victor ;  "  you 
promised  to  assist  me  with  the  coffee.  I  make  no 
boast  of  my  house  or  my  hospitality,  gentlemen," 
she  added,  with  a  charming  glance  around,  "  but  I 
warn  you  in  advance  that  not  to  admire  my  coffee 
is  to  lose  my  friendship  forever." 

In  answer  to  her  ring,  a  servant  brought  in  a 
small  mortar  and  a  pretty  little  bowl  of  whole  cof- 
fee, delicately  browned,  and  scarcely  cold  from  its 
roasting.  Arthur,  who  seemed  acquainted  with 
Mrs.  Greyson's  methods  of  procedure,  began  to 
pound  the  berries,  roasted  to  perfect  crispness,  in 
the  ebony  mortar,  reducing  them  to  an  almost  im- 
palpable powder,  which  diffused  upon  the  air  the 
entrancing  odor  dear  to  the  nostrils  of  all  artists. 

The  servant  meantime  had  provided  tiny  cups, 


THE  GREA  T  ASS  A  Y  OF  ART.  93 

a  little  copper  ibrik  and  an  alcohol  lamp  over 
which  simmered  a  vessel  of  boiling  water. 

"  Coffee  should  be  prepared  only  over  coals  of 
perfumed  wood,"  Helen  remarked  as  she  meas- 
ured into  the  ibrik  the  small  spoonful  of  coffee 
dust  designed  for  a  single  cup.  "  But  alcohol  is 
the  next  best  thing,  it  burns  with  such  a  super- 
natural flame." 

She  put  into  the  ibrik  a  measure  of  boiling 
water,  rested  it  an  instant  over  the  flame  to  restore 
the  heat  lost  in  the  cooler  copper,  and  then  poured 
the  beverage  into  the  egg-shell  cup  destined  for  it 

"  To  my  master  first,"  she  said,  presenting  the 
steaming  cup  to  Herman,  who  received  it  much  as 
one  might  a  gift  from  the  skies.  "  I  learned  my 
coffee  making,"  she  continued,  "  from  an  old  Arab 
at  Cairo,  who  used  to  say  that  it  was  one  of  the 
only  two  things  in  life  worth  doing,  the  other  be- 
ing the  duties  of  religion  ;  and  it  therefore  should 
be  perfectly  done." 

"It  is  simply  divine,"  the  sculptor  said.  "I 
have  never  really  tasted  coffee  before.  Only  if  it 
is  made  like  this  your  Arab  might  have  said  there 
was  but  one  thing  in  life,  for  this  becomes  a  re- 
ligious duty." 

One  by  one  with  equal  care  were  prepared  cups 
for  the  others,  who  were  neither  slow  nor  perfunc- 
tory in  their  endorsement  of  the  sculptor's  praise. 


XIV. 

THIS  IS  NOT  A  BOON. 

Othello  ;  iii. — 3. 

"  '  I  strew  these  opiate  flowers 
On  thy  restless  pillow  ; '  " 

LJUMMED  Grant  Herman  to  himself,  taking 
1 1  his  lonely  way  down  the  dim  and  dingy  streets 
leading  to  the  wharves  where  he  had  his  abode  : 

"  '  I  strew  these  opiate  flowers  — ' 

Oh,  what  a  woman  she  is !  She  might  be  Brun- 
hilde,  or  she  might  be  Burd  Helen; 

"  '  I  strew  these  — ' 

I  wonder  what  she  had  to  say  to  Fenton  that 
she  made  him  stay.  Confound  that  fellow ! '  I'm 
not  more  than  half  sure  that  I'm  fond  of  him ; 
though  I  can't  bring  myself  fairly  and  squarely 
to  dislike  him.  But  I  wish  he  didn't  know  Mrs. 
Greyson  quite  so  well ;  he's  going  to  be  married, 
too.  I  wonder  how  he  came  to  know  her,  any 
how.  It  is  strange  she  doesn't  wear  black  if  she 
is  a  widow.  I'd  like  to  learn  something  more 
definite  about  her,  but  Fenton's  the  only  one  who 
would  be  likely  to  know,  and  I  certainly  will  not 


THIS  IS  NOT  A  BOON.  95 

ask  him.  I  suppose  he  is  there  yet,  lounging  in 
some  sort  of  an  outlandish  shape." 

Arthur  was  indeed  still  in  Helen's  parlor,  and 
in  as  crooked  an  attitude  as  a  man  ever  com- 
passed. He  had  so  managed  to  dispose  of  him- 
self over  three  chairs  as  to  give  the  general  effect 
of  having  been  suddenly  arrested  in  the  midst  of 
an  acrobatic  feat  of  unusual  difficulty,  and  with  a 
cigar  in  his  long,  nervous  fingers,  was  watching 
Mrs.  Greyson,  who  occupied  herself  in  tidying  the 
roopi  a  little. 

"We  have  been  too  good  friends,"  she  said,  "to 
say  good-by  in  public.  The  old  days  have  been 
pleasant,  and  it  is  hard  to  give  them  up." 

"  You  have  insisted  upon  it  that  they  are  gone 
forever,"  he  returned,  "until  I  almost  begin  to 
believe  you.  But  it  is  no  matter.  Che  sara 
sara." 

"Yes;  che  sara  sara"  she  echoed.  "But  now 
are  you  willing  to  do  me  a  favor  ?  I  haven't  asked 
many  of  you." 

"  You  certainly  deserve  that  I  should  say  yes 
without  a  quibble,"  replied  Fenton,  "  but  your  air 
is  so  serious  that  I  do  not  dare  run  the  risk  ;  so  I 
will  merely  answer, — I  would  like  to  do  you  a 
favor  if  I  may." 

She  came  and  sat  down  near  him,  a  beautiful 
woman,  flushed  and  tender.  It  arose  perhaps 
from  the  delicate  sensitiveness  of  both  that  they 
had  always  instinctively  avoided  those  chance 


96  THE  PAGANS. 

contacts  which  between  lovers  become  so  signifi- 
cant, confining  themselves  to  rare  hand-shakes  at 
meeting  and  parting;  and  it  may  be  that  their 
very  scrupulousness  in  this  matter  proves  how 
near  they  had  been  to  more  emotional  relations 
than  those  of  simple  friendship.  Now  when 
Helen  laid  her  hand  upon  her  friend's  arm  it 
marked  an  earnestness  which  showed  how  much 
she  felt  what  she  was  about  to  say. 

"  I  want  you  to  give  me  something  that  Will 
gave  you  the  other  day."  * 

Fenton's  first  feeling  was  one  of  annoyance,  but 
this  was  quickly  replaced  by  a  desire  to  fathom 
the  motives  which  prompted  her  request. 

"  How  did  you  know  of  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"By  divination,"  she  answered,  with  a  faint 
smile.  "  Will  you  give  it  to  me  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  ?" 

"  Because  I  ask  you." 

"To  go  back  to  that,  then,  why  do  you  ask 
me?" 

"  Because  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  your  going 
to  be  married  with  that  in  your  possession.  Be- 
cause it  is  cruel  for  you  so  to  wrong  Miss  Cald- 
well  as  tc>  marry  her  while  you  find  it 
possible  to  think  it  may  lead  you  to — • 
to  use  that.  How  can  you  do  it !  You  know 
I've  no  sympathy  with  those  who  call  it  cowardly 
to  take  one's  life.  I  think  we've  a  right  to  do 
that  sometimes,  perhaps.  But  it  is  cowardly  to 


THIS  IS  NOT  A  BOON.  97 

marry  a  woman  with  the  deliberate  idea  of  escap- 
ing her  if  you  are  not  happy;  of  deserting  her 
after  you  have  inextricably  involved  her  life  in 
yours.  You've  no  right  to  do  that  if  you  mean 
to  make  it  a  tragedy." 

"  She  is  involved  in  my  life  already,"  he  re- 
turned gravely  ;  "  and  it  is  a  tragedy.  But  I  am 
not  so  wholly  selfish  as  you  assume.  Honestly, 
Helen,  it  is  for  her  sake  as  much,  at  least,  as  my 
own  that  I  wanted  that  vial.  It  is  all  like  a  scene 
in  The  City  of  Dreadful  Night.  I  cannot  be  sure 
that  I  may  not  have  to  kill  myself  for  her  happi- 
ness. Heaven  knows  I  have  not  found  myself  so 
good  company  as  to  have  very  strong  reasons  to 
suppose  that  any  body  else  will." 

"  No,"  Helen  said.  "  That  is  sophistry.  I  am 
a  woman  and  I  have  been  a  wife.  I  know  what  I 
say.  You  have  no  right  to  marry  any  woman  and 
allow  the  existence  of  such  a  possibility.  It  may 
not  be  logic,  but  it  is  true." 

"  But  she  will  not  know." 

"  She  may  not  know,  but  she  will  feel.  You 
are  too  finely  strung  not  to  discover  to  a  delicate 
ear  any  discord,  no  matter  how  hard  you  try  to 
conceal  it ;  and  the  ear  of  a  woman  who  loves  is 
sensitive  to  the  slightest  changes.  No,  Arthur, 
if  you  have  any  love  for  her,  any  friendship 
for  me,  any  respect  for  yourself,  give  me  that 
vial." 

He    made    no    answer    to   her    appeal   for    a 


98  THE  PAGANS. 

moment,  althougn  she  clasped  his  arm  more 
tightly  and  looked  beseechingly  into  his  face.  It 
was  one  of  those  moments  when  he  gave  way  to 
his  best  impulses  ;  when  he  indulged  in  the  pleas- 
ure of  letting  his  higher  nature  vibrate  in  response 
to  appeals  addressed  to  it,  and  for  the  instant 
tasted  the  intoxicating  pleasure  of  conscious 
virtue.  He  turned  to  scrutinize  her  more 
closely. 

"  But  what  would  you  do  with  it,  Helen  ?  " 

She  started  a  little.  She  had  not  been  without 
a  half-formed  thought  that  she  should  be  glad  to 
have  the  deadly  gift  with  its  power  of  swift 
oblivion  in  her  possession,  although  until  now  she 
had  scarcely  been  conscious  of  it.  J3ut  she  saw 
that  some  suspicion  of  this  was  present  in  Arthur's 
mind,  and  must  be  allayed  before  she  c^uld  hope 
to  accomplish  her  purpose. 

"  You  are  wrong,"  she  said  quickly.  "  It  is 
for  your  own  sake  that  I  want  you  to  give  it 
up.  I  will  do  whatever  you  like  with  it.  I 
pledge  you  my  word  that  I  will  never  use  it  my- 
self." 

He  still  made  no  movement  to  surrender  the 
vial,  but  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Come,"  she  pleaded.  "  I  appeal  to  your  best 
self.  For  the  sake  of  your  mother,  Arthur, — you 
have  told  me  you  could  refuse  her  nothing  she 
asked,  and  she  would  surely  ask  this  if  she  were 
alive  and  knew.  Give  it  to  me." 


THIS  IS  NOT  A  BOON.  99 

He  slowly  drew  from  some  inner  pocket  the 
little  morocco  case  and  held  it  in  both  hands 
looking  at  it. 

"  It  is  a  comfort  to  me,"  he  said.  "  It  means 
an  end  of  every  thing.  It  means  annihilation ;  it 
means  getting  rid  of  this  nightmare  of  existence. 
I  can  remember  when  I  dreaded  the  idea  of  anni- 
hilation, but  I  have  come  to  feel  that  it  is  the  only 
good  to  be  desired.  To  be  done  with  every  thing 
and  to  forget  evei/  thing !  Don't  you  see,  Helen  ; 
I  should  never  be  satisfied  with  any  thing  short  of 
omnipotence  and  omniscience,  and  annihilation  is 
the  only  refuge  for  a  nature  like  that.  I  want  to 
be  every  thing ;  to  feel  the  joy  of  the  conqueror 
and  yet  not  miss  the  keen,  fine  pang  of  the  con- 
quered— Lowell  says  it  somewhere  ;  to  be 

'  Both  maiden  and  lover ' — 

I  forget  it — '  bee  and  clover,'  you  know  ;  to  be 
the  '  red  slayer '  and  '  the  slain  '  both.  Do  you 
wonder  I  want  to  keep  this  ?  " 

A  feeling  of  helplessness  and  hopelessness  came 
over  Helen.  Only  half  consciously  she  spoke  a 
thought  aloud: 

"  You  are  half  mad  from  introspection." 

He  turned  upon  her  a  quizzical  smile. 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  he.  "  It  isn't  a  comfortable 
process  either.  If  a  man  has  lived  twenty-five 
years,  Helen,  and  has  not  so  entangled  his  life  in 
in  a  web  of  circumstances  that  no  power  will  ever 


100  THE  PAGANS. 

be  able  to  extricate  it,  he  may  consider  his  first 
quarter  century  of  existence  a  success." 

He  spoke  with  a  bitter  good  humor  not  uncom- 
mon with  him,  and  he  believed  himself  sincere. 
He  even  mentally  applauded  himself  for  the  just- 
ness of  the  sentiment,  and  was  not  untouched 
with  pity  for  a  being  in  whom  such  sadness  was 
possible.  It  may  have  been  this  secret  compla- 
cency that  Helen  detected  in  his  face  and  fancied 
it  a  sign  of  relenting.  She  put  out  her  hand  and 
took  hold  of  the  morocco  case.  Arthur  did  not 
release  his  hold,  yet  neither  did  his  grasp  tighten, 
and  she  drew  the  dangerous  gift  out  of  his 
fingers. 

She  sprang  up  and  locked  it  away  in  a  cabinet. 

"  There  !  "  she  exclaimed,  standing  before  him 
in  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  her  face  flushed 
and  her  eyes  shining.  "  Now  I  will  tell  you  what 
I  think  of  you.  I  think  you  mean  to  be  good  to 
others,  but —  " 

"  You  always  think  better  of  me  than  I  deserve," 
he  interrupted  ;  "  at  least  you  treat  me  better." 

"  That  does  not  necessarily  indicate  any  leni- 
ency of  judgment,"  retorted  Helen.  "  I  think  you 
are  self-centered,  and  morbid  ;  and  if  marriage 
doesn't  reform  you,  I  give  you  up,  for  nothing  will. 
Suffering  is  only  an  effect,  the  cause  is  sensibility  ; 
and  you  keep  yourself  abnormally  sensitive  by  hav- 
ing yourself  always  upon  the  vivisection  table." 

She  turned  and  walked  away  from  him.     Her 


THIS  IS  NOT  A  BOON.  IOI 

emotion  was  getting  beyond  her  control.  Her 
friendships  were  keen  with  the  intensity  of  her 
passionate  nature ;  she  had  not  passed  through 
this  struggle  lightly,  and  perhaps  the  victory  un- 
nerved her  more  than  defeat  would  have  done. 
On  his  part  he  endeavored  to  turn  every  thing  off 
as  usual  with  a  jest. 

"  Have  I  told  you  Bently's  latest  ?"  he  began. 
"He—" 

"  It  is  of  no  use,"  she  said,  returning  to  him, 
tears  overflowing  her  eyes.  "  You  cannot  help 
my  making  a  spectacle  of  myself  ;  and  you  had 
better  go.  Oh,  Arthur,  I  hope  so  much  for  you  ; 
I  do  so  hope  for  happiness  coming  to  you  out  of 
this  marriage  ;  but  I  shall  be  so  lonely." 

Her  voice  broke  despite  her  effort.  She  came 
nearer,  she  hesitated  an  instant ;  then  she  bent 
over  and  kissed  his  forehead.  A  hot  tear  splashed 
upon  his  hand. 

"  There,"  she  said.  "  Good  night,  and  good- 
by.  When  you  come  back  you  will  see  what  a 
fine  steady  old  lady  I  have  become." 

He  got  on  to  his  feet,  confused,  troubled,  pity- 
ing her  profoundly  and  commiserating  himself 
upon  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation.  He  tried 
to  frame  some  sentence  which  might  bridge  the 
distance  that  seemed  suddenly  to  have  opened 
between  them.  Like  a  farewell,  a  renunciation  or 
a  dedication,  that  kiss  impressed  upon  him  a  cer- 
tain remoteness  new  and  oppressive. 


102  THE  PAGANS. 

"  Bah ! "  he  broke  off.  "  I  can  say  nothing, 
Helen.  I  have  thus  far  served  in  an  already  suffi- 
ciently unhappy  world  only  to  make  people  more 
miserable  still.  I'm  not  worth  a  faintest  regret. 
Good-night.  If  I  can  ever  serve  you — Good-by ! " 


XV. 
'TWAS  WONDROUS  PITIFUL. 

Othello  ;  i— 3. 

HELEN'S  first  conscious  sensation  next  morn- 
ing  was  a  feeling  of  loss,  which  resolved  itself 
into  a  deep  sadness  when  she  was  fairly  awake 
and  realized  that  Arthur  had  gone.  She  had  not 
considered  how  much  his  companionship  and 
friendliness  had  been  to  her  until  now,  when  she 
felt  them  lost.  A  woman  so  lonely  yet  so  affec- 
tionate as  Helen  could  not  spare  from  her  life  a 
friend  so  dear  as  Fenton  had  been  without  being 
much  moved.  So  strong  had  been  her  attach- 
ment, and  so  intimate  had  been  the  acquaintance 
between  herself  and  Arthur,  that  Dr.  Ashton  had 
believed  his  wife  to  love  the  artist ;  but  Helen, 
closely  questioning  her  heart,  was  able  to  assure 
herself  that  warm  as  had  been  her  regard  for  Fen- 
ton,  he  had  never  awakened  in  her  bosom  a  single 
thrill  of  love.  She  was  sad  this  morning  with  the 
sorrow  of  a  broken  friendship,  not  of  a  blighted 
passion. 

She  sighed  deeply,  the  sigh  of  one  but  too  well 
accustomed  to  life's  disappointments,  and  arose 
with  the  determination  to  lose  herself  in  her  work, 


104  THE  PAGANS. 

and  to  shake  off  if  possible  the  sadness  which 
seemed  to  paralyze  her  energies  and  enervate  her 
whole  being. 

The  gown  which  she  had  worn  upon  the  'previ- 
ous evening  lay  over  a  chair,  giving  out,  as  she 
lifted  it,  an  odor  of  tobacco  smoke.  Some  remark 
made  by  Grant  Herman  about  the  fumes  which 
had  filled  the  little  parlor  came  into  her  mind, 
giving  a  new  current  to  her  thoughts.  She  uncon- 
sciously fell  to  thinking  of  the  sculptor,  and,  by  a 
natural  connection  of  ideas,  of  Ninitta,  who  was 
still  nominally  posing  for  her. 

Partly  from  interest  in  the  girl  herself  and 
partly  from  the  perception  that  it  pleased  her 
master  to  have  the  Italian  remain  with  her,  she 
had  retained  Ninitta,  although  the  bas-relief  was 
so  far  advanced  that  the  model  was  hardly  needed. 
She  had  even  set  herself,  by  those  unobtrusive 
ways  at  the  command  of  gracious  women,  to  win 
the  girl's  confidence,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of 
hearing  her  story  as  to  give  the  waif  so  strangely 
cast  in  her  path  the  feeling  that  the  friendship 
she  so  sorely  needed  was  within  her  reach. 
It  had  resulted,  however,  in  her  hearing  Ninitta's 
history.  Many  women  have  no  idea  of  returning 
kindness  save  by  unreserved  confidence,  and 
although  Ninitta  was  perhaps  scarcely  to  be 
reckoned  among  these  extremists,  she  yet  found 
so  much  comfort  in  pouring  out  her  sorrows  to 
one  who  could  both  sympathize  and  appreciate, 


JT WA  S  WONDRO  US  PITIFUL.  1 05 

that  little  by  little  the  whole  pathetic  tale  was 
told. 

"  I  did  not  understand,"  Ninitta  said  once  in  her 
broken  English,  "  when  he  left  Rome.  It  was  as 
if  somebody  had  taken  my  life  away  somehow.  I 
couldn't  make  it  seem  that  I  was  really  alive  all 
the  same,  though  I  knew  it  could  not  be  his  fault. 
He  would  not  have  done  it  if  he  had  known.  You 
do  not  believe  he  would  have  left  me  if  he  had 
known  the  truth  ?  " 

"  No,"  Helen  answered.  "  He  could  not  have 
left  you  if  he  had  known.  It  was  because  he  was 
hurt  so  much,  and  that  could  only  be  because  he 
loved  you  so  much." 

"  He  loved  me  so  much,"  poor  Ninitta  repeated 
murmuringly,  "  he  loved  me  so  much." 

And  all  that  day  she  followed  Helen  with  wist- 
ful eyes,  as  if  she  longed  to  hear  her  say  again 
those  precious  words. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  was  like  in  Paris," 
she  said  at  another  time.  "  In  Rome  they  all 
knew  me.  They  knew  I  was  betrothed,  and  no 
one  ever  troubled  me.  But  in  Paris  it  was  differ- 
ent. Oh,  I  hate  Paris  !  And  it  was  so  cruel  that 
he  was  not  there.  It  was  so  dreadful  that  he 
should  be  on  the  other  side  of  that  horrible  sea !  " 

The  girl  was  so  self-forgetful  in  these  revela- 
tions, she  spoke  always  with  such  an  unshaken 
faith  in  Herman  and  was  so  free  from  any  thought 
of  blaming  him,  that  Helen  could  not  but  be 


106  THE  PAGANS. 

touched.  She  soothed  poor  Ninitta  as  well  as  she 
was  able,  having  power  to  promise  nothing,  seeing 
no  way  out  of  the  entanglement,  yet  at  least 
showing  to  the  lonely  Italian  that  her  woman's 
heart  bled  for  her  sorrow  if  she  might  not  alle- 
viate it.  Sometimes  she  felt  like  going  to  the 
sculptor  and  entreating  him  to  take  pity  upon  the 
girl  who  so  adoringly  loved  him.  Once  when  the 
model  had  told  her  how  just  as  she  had  saved  by 
long,  painful  economy,  nearly  money  enough  to  pay 
the  passage  to  America  it  was  stolen  and  she  was 
forced  to  begin  the  slow  process  over  again,  Helen 
impulsively  left  her  studio  and  found  herself  on 
the  very  threshold  of  Herman's  door  before  she 
realized  what  she  had  been  about  to  do.  By  what 
authority  was  she  to  interfere  in  a  matter  like 
this?  If  Ninitta  loved  the  sculptor  who  had  long 
ago  ceased  to  return  her  affection,  could  matters  be 
helped  by  an  unloving  marriage  ?  It  was  not  for 
her,  moreover,  to  give  unasked  her  advice  to  such 
a  man  as  she  knew  Grant  Herman  to  be.  If  he 
consulted  her,  she  reflected,  she  might  present  the 
pathetic,  touching  story  which  Ninitta  had  told 
her,  but  she  had  plainly  no  pretext  for  forcing  her 
feelings  upon  her  master  unsought. 

She  turned  and  went  slowly  up  the  stairs 
toward  her  little  room  ;  but  suddenly  she  paused. 
She  had  all  at  once  become  conscious  that  she  de- 
sired eagerly  to  know  the  nature  of  the  sculptor's 
feelings  toward  his  old  love.  Why,  she  asked 


'TWAS  WONDROUS  PITIFUL.  107 

herself,  was  she  so  interested  in  what  after  all  did 
not  personally  concern  her.  A  quick  emotion, 
almost  too  vague  to  be  called  a  thought,  made  her 
cheek  flame. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said  half  aloud.  "  It  is  only  that 
I  am  touched  by  Ninitta's  sadness.  It  is  nothing 
more." 

But  her  breath  came  more  quickly,  and  it  was  # 
with  difficulty  that  upon  re-entering  her  studio  she 
assumed  a  quiet  mien,  lest  her  model  should  guess 
at  her  unfulfilled  errand. 

On  the  morning  following  the  meeting  of  the 
Pagans  at  her  rooms,  Helen  was  alone  in  her 
studio.  She  had  told  Ninitta  she  should  be  late 
and  the  latter  was  therefore  tardy  in  arriving. 
Mrs.  Greyson  uncovered  her  bas-relief,  now 
rapidly  nearing  completion,  and  stood  before  it, 
examining  critically  its  merits  and  defects.  A 
familiar  step  in  the  passage,  a  tap  at  the  door,  and 
Grant  Herman  joined  her. 

"  You  look  as  fresh  as  ever  this  morning,"  he 
said.  "  I  feared  that  the  entertaining  of  such  a 
company  of  Bohemians  would  have  tired  you  out." 

"  No,  indeed,"  she  returned.  "  I  am  of  far  too 
much  endurance  to  be  worn  out  by  any  thing  of 
that  sort.  I  have  a  drop  of  Bohemian  blood  in 
my  veins  myself,  I  think,  and  I  like  to  meet  men 
as  men — when  they  are  simply  good  fellows  to- 
gether, I  mean.  A  woman  usually  sees  men  in  an 
attitude  of  either  deference  or  defense,  and  there 


Io8  THE  PAGANS. 

is  something  inspiriting  to  her  in  being  occasion- 
ally received  as  a  comrade." 

"  There  are  few  women  who  can  be  received 
so,"  returned  Herman.  "  I  suppose  it  requires 
both  an  especial  temperament  and  especial  exper 
riences  to  render  a  woman  capable  of  being  a  com- 
rade to  men." 

The  talk  drifted  away  to  general  and  indifferent 
subjects,  broken  here  and  there  by  allusions  and 
criticisms  relating  to  the  Flight  of  the  Months, 
and  not  infrequently  dropping  into  brief  silences. 
One  of  these  Herman  broke  by  saying  abruptly: 

"  You  do  not  know  how  your  song  has  haunted 
me  all  night.  I  have  been  saying  over  and  over 
to  myself 

"  '  I  strew  these  opiate  flowers 
On  thy  restless  pillow.' 

And,  indeed,  I  longed  for  some  such  soporific  my- 
self before  morning.  Your  coffee  or  your  song, 
or — yourself," — he  hesitated  over  the  last  word — 
"  kept  me  very  effectually  awake." 

"  It  must  have  been  the  coffee  ;  there  was  little 
potency  in  either  of  the  other  causes." 

"There  is  much,"  he  returned  resolutely,  ad- 
vancing a  step  nearer.  "  Mrs.  Greyson,  I  have 
not  wasted  the  night.  I  have  thought  out  a  great 
many  things  ;  the  first  and  chief  being  in  regard 
to  yourself." 

His  tone,  the  piercing  glow  of  his  eyes,  warned 


'TWAS  WONDROUS  PITIFUL.  109 

Helen  what  was  coming.  She  thought  of  Ninitta, 
and  retreated  a  step. 

"  It  is  true,"  the  sculptor  continued,  as  if  an- 
swering the  doubt  implied  by  her  movement, 
"  that  I—" 

The  door  opened  softly  and  Ninitta  came  in. 

His  outstretched  hand  dropped  ;  the  words  died 
upon  his  lips.  He  turned  from  one  woman  to  the 
other  an  appealing  look  of  hopeless  sadness  and 
left  the  studio  in  silence. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Helen's  generosity  that 
her  first  thought  should  be  of  the  pain  which 
Ninitta  must  feel.  One  glance  at  the  model  was 
sufficient  to  show  that  the  Italian  had  compre- 
hended enough  of  the  interrupted  scene  to  be 
made  wretched  ;  but  it  did  not  then  occur  to  Mrs. 
Greyson  that  to  Ninitta's  jealous  soul,  unsuspicious 
of  Herman,  the  only  explanation  of  a  fondness  be- 
tween the  sculptor  and  his  pupil  lay  in  an  effort 
on  the  part  of  the  latter  to  win  from  the  model  her 
rightful  and  long  betrothed  lover. 


XVI. 

CRUEL  PROOF  OF  THIS  MAN'S    STRENGTH. 

As  You  Like  It  ;  i. — 2. 

GRANT  HERMAN  sat  in  his  studio  in  the  gath- 
ering twilight  thinking  gloomily.  However 
little  Mrs.  Greyson  suspected  the  tumult  which 
would  be  aroused  in  Ninitta's  breast  by  the  mis- 
adventure of  the  morning,  the  sculptor  was  too 
well  aware  of  the  Italian's  passionate  nature  not  to 
dread  the  consequences  of  the  jealousy  she  was 
sure  to  feel.  He  knew,  moreover,  that  Ninitta's 
rage  would  vent  itself  not  upon  him  but  upon 
Helen,  and  he  wondered  how  best  to  avert  the 
danger  that  threatened. 

He  debated  with  himself,  too,  how  much  he 
owed  to  the  girl  who  gave  her  life  up  so  unreserv- 
edly to  him.  His  old  love — "  call  it  rather  mere 
boyish  passion,"  he  thought  scornfully — was  long 
since  dead  beyond  hope  ;  yet  the  devotion  which 
it  had  awakened  in  Ninitta  burned  on  as  steadily 
as  ever.  Had  he  now  a  right  to  repulse  the  love 
he  had  himself  called  into  being  ;  to  throw  aside 
the  fondness  he  had  himself  fostered  and  which 
he  had  once  prized  above  measure. 

"  No,"  he  thought,  "  a  thousand  times  no.     A 


CRUEL  PROOF  OF  THIS  MAN'S  STRENGTH.    Ill 

man  must  be  a  villain  who  would  not  marry  a  girl 
under  such  circumstances.  I  am  hers ;  the  fact 
that  I  have  changed  is  my  misfortune,  not  her 
fault.  If  I  have  any  manliness  about  me,  I  won't 
let  things  go  on  in  this  way  any  longer.  I'll  marry 
Ninitta.  It  is  the  smallest  reparation  I  can  make 
for  the  long  years  of  pain  I  have  caused  her.  There 
is  no  other  course  for  me. 

"  But  I  do  not  love  her,  and  a  woman,  they  say, 
always  instinctively  feels  it  when  a  man's  heart  is 
not  hers.  Nonsense  !  That  is  only  a  cowardly  ex- 
cuse. At  least  Ninitta  would  never  be  troubled. 
She  has  not  known  so  much  love  that  she  can  draw 
very  sharp  comparisons.  No  ;  she  will  be  satis- 
fied ;  and  I — well,  if  a  man  is  such  a  devilish  fool 
as  I  have  been,  it  remains  for  him  to  pay  the  pen- 
alty. Oh,  if  youth  only  knew  ! " 

He  sighed  deeply  and  began  to  walk  up  and 
down  the  studio,  in  which  the  dusk  was  gathering 
thickly.  A  last  faint  gleam  from  a  window  high 
in  the  riverward  wall  fell  upon  one  of  the  mutila- 
ted goddesses  in  the  gallery.  Herman  looked  up, 
contemplating  the  phantom-like  head  gloomily. 
Something  in  its  pose,  or  perhaps  more  truly  some- 
thing in  his  own  mind,  suggested  a  faint  likeness  to 
Helen,  as  if  it  were  her  ghost  looking  down  from 
some  far  height  upon  the  conflict  of  his  soul. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  cried  hotly  to  himself.  "And  she  ? 
How  can  I  give  up  the  hope  of  winning  her? 
What  was  a  boy's  foolish  fancy  to  the  passion  of 


112  THE  PAGANS. 

a  man — and  for  such  a  woman !  She  is  half  god- 
dess. No,  no ;  I  cannot  do  it.  I  cannot  marry 
this  Italian  peasant,  this  model  that  has  who 
knows  what  history !  I  will  not ;  I  owe  some- 
thing to  myself,  to  my  art.  What  is  the  simple 
happiness  of  Ninitta  to  my  art?  I  should  be  a 
fool  to  ignore  how  much  more  to  the  world  my 
own  well-being  is  worth  than  is  hers ;  and  what 
could  I  not  do  with  the  inspiration  of  the  other ! 
Oh,  my  God !  " 

The  darkness  grew.  The  phantom  faded  im- 
perceptibly away.  He  was  left  alone  in  the  dark- 
ness to  fight  out  his  battle.  He  marched  with 
great  strides,  avoiding  obstacles  by  a  certain  sixth 
sense  born  of  constant  familiarity  with  the  place. 
He  fought  manfully,  persuading  himself  that  his 
scruples  were  as  idle  as  air,  remnants  of  the  long 
since  outgrown  superstitions  of  his  childhood. 
He  defiantly  claimed  the  right  to  be  true  to  his 
powers,  to  his  genius,  rather  than  to  an  empirical 
standard  erected  by  narrow  moralists.  He  should 
be  thankful  that  he  had  escaped  entangling  his 
life  by  that  absurd  marriage  in  Rome  seven  years 
ago,  and  that  he  was  now  free  to  win  a  wife  worthy 
of  himself  and  of  his  art. 

Yet  he  cut  through  all  the  meshes  of  logic  he 
had  himself  been  weaving,  by  striking  his  strong 
hands  together  there  in  the  dark,  and  crying  aloud, 
his  voice  startling  him  in  the  stillness: 

"  My  God   !  What  a  poltroon  I  have  become ! 


CRUEL  PROOF  OF  THIS  MAN'S  STRENGTH.    113 

Shall  I  cast  on  others  the  burden  of  my  own  mis- 
takes ?  " 

And  seizing  hat  and  cloak  he  left  the  studio, 
taking  his  way  towards  the  narrow  street  where 
Ninitta  lodged,  hasten'njj  to  ask  her  to  marry  him 
before  his  resolution  faltered. 


XVII. 

THIS  "  WOULD  "   CHANGES. 

Hamlet ;  iv. — 7. 

HERMAN  found  Ninitta  alone  in  the  attic 
which  served  her  for  a  home  in  this  bleak 
northern  city,  so  far  and  so  different  from  her  own 
sunny  Capri. 

Bare  and  half  furnished  as  was  the  room,  the 
girl  had  contrived  to  impart  to  it  a  certain  air 
which  removed  it  from  the  common-place.  A  bit 
of  flimsy  drapery,  begged  from  some  studio,  hung 
over  one  of  the  windows ;  a  rude  print  of  the 
Madonna  was  pinned  to  the  wall,  and  under  it,  on 
the  wooden  table,  was  a  bunch  of  withered  flow- 
ers. They  were  roses  which  Helen  had  given 
Ninitta,  and  the  Italian,  returning  home  that  day, 
had  in  her  jealous  rage  thrown  them  to  the  floor 
and  trampled  upon  them.  Then  remembering 
that  they  had  been  offered  to  the  Madonna,  she 
had  been  seized  with  a  superstitious  fear,  and 
carefully  restoring  the  battered  flowers,  had 
eagerly  vowed  a  fresh  bunch  to  the  Holy  Mother 
if  she  might  be  forgiven  this  sacrilege. 

But  the  most  beautiful  article  in  the  room  was 
a  cast  of  a  woman's  shoulder.  It  had  been  mod- 


THIS  "WOULD"  CHANGES.  115 

eled  by  Herman  in  the  earliest  days  of  his  ac- 
quaintance with  Ninitta,  when  she  had  been  still 
only  his  model  and  not  his  betrothed.  He  was 
touched  as  he  looked  at  it  now.  Yellow  with 
time  and  soiled  by  its  various  journeyings,  it  still 
preserved  unmarred  its  lovely  shape,  exquisite 
curve  melting  into  exquisite  curve  as  softly  and 
sweetly  as  in  those  glowing  days  when  he  had 
molded  it  under  the  sky  of  Italy. 

He  looked  from  the  cast  to  Ninitta.  He  had 
only  seen  her  at  the  studio,  and  he  experienced  a 
faint  feeling  of  surprise  at  detecting  a  subtle  dif- 
ference in  her  here  at  home.  It  was  nothing  so 
tangible  that  he  could  have  told  by  what  means 
he  received  the  impression,  yet  it  was  sufficiently 
definite  to  make  him  lose  something  of  the  free- 
dom with  which  he  had  always  addressed  her. 
She  was  no  longer  simply  the  model,  she  was  an 
Italian  woman  in  her  own  home. 

The  years  during  which  they  had  been  sepa- 
rated had  formed  and  strengthened  Ninitta's 
character.  If  Herman  had  not  before  noted  the 
alteration,  it  was  due  in  part  to  his  pre-occupation 
and  in  part  to  the  force  of  old  habit  which  made 
her  manner  toward  him  much  the  same  a's  form- 
erly. To-night  he  began  to  appreciate  the  change 
in  her,  and  he  felt  the  awkwardness  which  always 
results  from  the  discovery  that  we  must  adapt 
ourselves  to  a  modified  condition  in  a  friend. 

On  her  side  Ninitta  was  naturally  surprised  at 


Il6  THE  PAGANS. 

seeing  the  sculptor.  She  had  come  to  regard  as 
hopeless  all  speculations  upon  his  intentions,  and 
she  had  waited  patiently  until  he  should  choose 
to  show  her  favor,  tacitly  acknowledging  his  right 
to  do  whatever  should  be  his  good  pleasure.  Had 
he  come  at  any  time  and  said,  "  Ninitta,  I  am  here 
to  marry  you,"  she  would  gladly  but  quietly  have 
made  ready  to  follow  where  he  chose  to  lead,  even 
to  the  world's  end.  Equally,  had  he  said,  "  Ninitta, 
I  have  come  to  say  good-by ;  you  will  never  see 
me  again,"  she  would  have  acquiesced  without  a 
murmur,  and  then,  perhaps,  have  taken  her  own 
life.  As  long  as  it  was  his  simple  wish,  uninflu- 
enced by  the  will  of  another,  she  would  never 
have  questioned. 

Now,  however,  all  passive  acquiescence  was  at 
an  end.  Since  the  scene  in  Helen's  studio,  Ninitta 
had  an  object  upon  which  to  expend  all  her  ener- 
gies, and  she  even  almost  forgot  to  love  Herman 
in  the  intensity  of  her  sudden  jealous  hatred  of 
Mrs.  Greyson.  Yesterday  Grant  Herman  would 
have  found  a  woman  not  unlike  the  Ninitta  of  old 
times,  tender,  loving,  pathetically  submissive ;  to- 
day he  was  confronted  by  a  fury,  only  restrained 
by  the  respect  for  his  presence  born  of  long  habit. 

"  Good  evening !  "  he  said  gently,  as  he  entered, 
his  mood  softened  by  the  struggle  through  which 
he  had  passed  in  his  studio. 

"Good  evening!"  she  answered  defiantly,  in 
Italian.  "  So  you  are  not  with  her !" 


THIS  ' '  WO  ULD  "  CHANGES.  1 1  ^ 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed. 

He  had  been  wholly  unprepared  for  this  out- 
burst, and  for  the  instant  was  too  surprised  to  at 
all  understand  it. 

A  sudden  rage  seemed  to  seize  Ninitta,  which 
swept  away  all  barriers  of  restraint. 

"  Si,  si,  si,"  she  cried,  "  I  am  not  blind  !  What 
if  you  are  my  betrothed,  when  this  woman  comes 
to  entrap  you,  to  bewitch  you  with  an  evil  eye,  to 
steal  your  soul !  Yes,  yes  ;  you  are  not  with  her 
to-night  as  you  were  last  night.  Did  I  not  see 
you  myself  come  out  of  her  house  ?  " 

"  Stop  !  "  he  said  in  his  most  commanding  tone, 
but  without  anger. 

The  calmness  and  decision  of  the  manner  arrest- 
ed her.  She  sank  back  into  a  chair,  regarding  him 
with  defiant  eyes. 

"  So  you  have  followed  me,"  continued  Herman, 
speaking  with  painful  slowness,  so  that  every  word 
seemed  to  poor  Ninitta  to  fall  upon  her  like  a 
curse;  "so  you  have  played  the  spy  upon  me. 
Ah!" 

As  he  looked  at  her  she  began  to  cower.  She 
shrank  back  in  her  seat,  putting  up  her  hands  to 
shield  her  face  from  his  gaze. 

"  Yet  I  meant  to  marry  you,"  he  said,  half  to 
himself,  although  still  addressing  her.  "  I  came 
to-night  to  say,  '  Come,  Ninitta,  let  us  take  up  the 
broken  romance  that  a  cruel  mistake  interrupted 
there  in  Rome.'  I  had  long  ago  outgrown  my 


Ii8  THE    PAGANS. 

old  fancy,  but  I  meant  to  be  true  to  my  promise 
to  you.  I  meant  to  give  up  even  my  ambition 
for  your  sake ;  to  make  your  life  happy  and  se- 
cure. And  this  is  your  trust  in  me  !  If  you  really 
loved  me,  to  track  me  like  a  thief  would  have  been 
impossible  to  you.  And  where  have  you  learned 
this  trick  of  playing  the  spy  ?  "  he  went  on  with 
growing  wrath,  becoming  more  and  more  cruel 
with  every  word.  "  It  is  a  relic  of  your  Paris  life, 
I  fancy.  It  is  hardly  a  resource  to  which  a  good 
girl  would  be  driven.  I  at  least  believed  you 
when  you  told  me  you  had  been  true  to  me." 

He  spoke  rapidly,  aggressively.  The  fact  that 
he  was  outraging  his  own  instincts  in  beating  with 
bitter  words  the  girl  who  bowed  before  him  with 
drooping  head  and  disheveled  hair  made  him  but 
the  more  harsh.  To  fall  from  the  height  of  self- 
sacrifice  into  a  pool  of  vulgar  intrigue  !  Bah ! 
His  disgust  at  himself  for  ever  having  known  this 
woman  seemed  too  great  to  be  borne. 

Yet  under  all  his  passionate  protest  and  repul- 
sion he  was  conscious  that  he  doubted  what  he 
was  himself  saying  with  so  much  vehemence ;  that 
he  secretly  believed  Ninitta  to  be  true  and  pure, 
and  that  to  her  Italian  blood,  to  her  peasant  nur- 
ture, was  due  the  espionage  in  which  she  had  been 
self-betrayed.  The  sting  of  conscience,  too,  in  the 
knowledge  that  the  model's  jealousy  of  Helen  was 
well  founded,  the  humiliation  of  finding  his  feel- 
ings and  motives  discovered,  increased  his  irrita- 


THIS  "WOULD"  CHANGES.  119 

tion.  He  felt  a  base  desire  to  stab  and  humiliate 
Ninitta,  but  for  whom  he  might  be  free  to  win  the 
one  woman  he  had  ever  loved ;  and  the  more  his 
denunciations  recoiled  to  hurt  himself,  the  more 
eagerly  he  poured  them  out,  as  in  some  moods  of 
mental  anguish  one  finds  relief  in  the  pain  of  self- 
inflicted  physical  hurts. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  more  and  more  completely 
abandoning  control  of  himself;  "yes,  this  tells 
sufficiently  what  you  have  learned  in  Paris." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no! "  she  cried,  flinging  herself  at 
his  feet  and  groveling  there.  "  No,  no  !  For  the 
love  of  the  Virgin,  signer,  not  that  !  I  have  been 
good.  Oh,  for  the  love  of  God,  signor !  For  the 
love  of  God  !  " 

She  was  shaken  by  the  storm  of  sobs  in  which 
her  words  ended.  She  got  hold  of  his  feet  and 
refused  to  rise  when  he  attempted  to  lift  her.  Her 
long  hair,  escaped  from  its  stilletto,  fell  about  her 
face.  Even  in  this  agitated  moment  the  sculptor  in 
Grant  Herman  noted  with  a  sharp,  aesthetic  pleasure 
the  beautiful  curves  of  her  neck  and  shoulders. 

"  Pity,"  she  went  on  between  her  agonized 
sobs.  "  Oh,  forgive  me  !  I  will  do  any  thing  you 
wish.  I  will  go  away  and  leave  you." 

He  stooped  and  raised  her  by  main  force,  yet 
tenderly. 

"  There,  there,  Ninitta,"  he  said,  "  I  was  wrong. 
I  do  believe  you  are  a  good  girl ;  but  you  should 
not  have  played  the  spy." 


120  THE  PAGANS. 

He  soothed  her  as  well  as  he  was  able,  her 
violence  spending  itself  in  passionate  tears.  She 
drew  herself  away  from  him,  and  sat  down  again  in 
the  chair  she  had  been  occupying.  She  put  up  her 
hands  to  her  head,  twisting  the  loose  tresses,  into 
a  great  coil.  The  sleeve  of  her  dress,  unfastened 
in  her  agitation,  fell  back  from  her  rounded  arm. 
The  superb  lines  of  her  figure  were  displayed  by 
her  attitude.  Her  face,  flushed  with  weeping  and 
lighted  by  the  still  tear-wet  eyes,  if  not  beautiful 
was  appealing  and  pitiful.  Some  fiber  touched  of 
old  vibrated  anew  in  his  being.  He  made  a  step 
forward. 

"  Ninitta,"  he  said,  "  I  came  to-night  to  ask  you 
to  marry  me  at  once ;  to  fulfill  the  promise  I  made 
you  so  long  ago." 

The  words  and  the  tone  both  were  tender,  but 
he  had  said  those  same  words  in  anger  just  before. 

"  But  you  do  not  love  me,"  she  responded,  her 
arms  dropping  pathetically  into  her  lap.  "  You 
have  said  it." 

"  But  I  was  angry,"  answered  Herman,  for  the 
moment  almost  believing  that  his  old  love  was 
re-awakened.  "  I  did  not  mean  you  to  believe  it." 

"  If  you  do  love  me,"  she  said,  a  new  look 
coming  into  her  eyes,  "  you  will  promise  me  never 
to  see  her  again." 

He  started  back  as  if  from  a  blow.  His  frail 
dream  of  passion  was  shattered  like  a  bubble  at 
her  words.  A  wave  of  bitter  self-contempt  that 


THIS  ' '  WO  ULD  "  CHANGES.  1 2 1 

its  existence  had  been  possible  swept  over  him. 
The  blood  surged  into  his  cheeks.  Ninitta  saw 
the  flush  and  her  eye  kindled. 

"  Promise  me,"  she  repeated.  "  It  is  little  for 
love  to  ask.  It  is  my  right." 

With  instinctive  feminine  guile  she  leaned  to- 
wards him  in  an  attitude  so  beautiful,  so  appeal- 
ing that  even  now  he  was  moved.  But  with  this 
emotion  came,  too,  a  subtle  if  now  fainter  sense 
of  degradation  that  he  was  susceptible  to  this 
dangerous  fascination,  with  a  painful  conscious- 
ness of  how  wide  a  moral  gulf  had  opened  be- 
tween them  by  the  anger  and  vulgar  jealousy 
which  Ninitta  displayed.  It  is  not  impossible, 
too,  that  his  instinctive  clinging  to  Helen  was  a 
stronger  power  than  he  knew ;  while  still  through 
all  his  mingled  emotions  ran  the  resolve  he  had 
made  to  give  himself  up  to  his  old  betrothed. 

"  No,"  he  said ;  yet  as  he  moved  slowly  towards 
the  door  he  had  the  air  of  a  man  who  still  deliber- 
ates. 

She  threw  herself  back  in  her  seat  with  a  touch- 
ing gesture  of  despair,  but  also  with  a  gleam  of 
malice  in  her  eyes,  which  he,  turning  with  his 
hand  upon  the  latch,  caught  and  understood. 

"  No,"  he  repeated  with  final  decision.  "  No, 
no!" 


XVIII. 

BEDECKING  ORNAMENTS  OF  PRAISE. 

Love's  Labor's  Lost ;  ii. — I. 

TTENTON  had  returned  to  Boston  with  his 
1  bride,  but  as  yet  Helen  had  not  seen  him. 
One  morning  late  in  March,  however,  he  came  to 
call. 

"  I  could  not  come  before,"  he  said  after  the 
first  greeting,  " '  I  have  married  a  wife,'  and  the 
amount  of  arrangement  and  adjustment  implied 
in  that  statement  is  simply  astounding." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  at  last,"  she  returned. 
"  And  your  wife,  is  she  well  ?  " 

"  My  wife,"  replied  he,  with  a  little  hesitancy 
over  the  unfamiliar  term,  "  is  well.  Cannot  you 
come  to  see  us  before  that  dreadful  reception 
through  which  I  am  to  be  dragged?  I'd  like  you 
to  know  Edith  in  a  different  way  from  the 
crowd." 

Helen  crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  in  her  fa- 
vorite chair  by  the  window. 

"  He  ought  to  understand,"  was  her  thought. 
"  Why  cannot  he  see  that  it  is  impossible  for  his 
wife  and  me  to  harmonize.  We  have  no  common 
ground." 


BEDECKING  ORNAMENTS  OF  PRAISE.       123 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to,"  she  said  aloud,  inwardly 
shrinking  at  the  need  of  speaking  disingenuously 
to  one  with  whom  she  had  so  long  been  upon 
terms  of  frankness.  "  I  will  come  very  soon  ;  to- 
day or  to-morrow.  To-day,  though,  I  must  go 
and  see  my  bas-relief.  It  is  all  ready  to  be  cut  for 
the  furnace ;  I  only  want  to  take  a  last  look  at  it, 
to  be  sure  that  every  thing  is  right.  If  it  will  not 
bore  you,"  she  added,  a  little  hesitatingly,  "  you 
might  come  too ;  it  is  your  last  chance  to  find 
fault  to  any  advantage,  for  any  changes  must  be 
made  at  once." 

"  I'd  like  to  go,"  answered  her  friend,  looking 
at  his  watch,  "  if  I  can  get  back  to  luncheon.  Yes, 
there's  plenty  of  time." 

'•  Benedick,  the  married  man,"  laughed  Helen. 
"  That  I  should  ever  live  to  see  this  air  of  domes- 
ticity !  " 

They  crossed  the  Common,  chatting  idly,  and 
both  conscious  that  the  frankness  of  their  old 
intercourse  was  somehow  lacking ;  that  it  was 
necessary  to  begin  a  new  adjustment  upon  a  basis 
different  from  the  former  one.  They  talked  upon 
indifferent  subjects,  of  what  had  occurred  during 
the  three  weeks  of  Arthur's  absence,  playing  the 
part  of  amiability  without  pleasure,  endeavoring 
to  simulate  the  old  relations  which  no  longer  had 
real  existence. 

"  Oh,  Arthur,"  Helen  laughed,  suddenly,  "  let's 
not  go  on  in  this  way  !  Let  us  quarrel,  or  some- 


124  THE  PAGANS. 

thing1.  Say  a  wicked  epigram  ;  do  any  thing,  only 
don't  be  so  eminently  amiable! " 

"  My  head  is  as  empty  of  ideas,"  he  returned 
laughing,  in  his  turn,  "  as  is  a  modern  title-page 
of  punctuation  points.  Besides,  Edith  has  for- 
bidden wicked  epigrams." 

"  Does  she  therefore  suppose  she  can  suppress 
them  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  responded  Fenton,  good- 
humoredly.  "  I  am  not  in  as  epigrammatic  a  frame 
of  mind  as  I  was." 

"Tis  a  good  sign." 

"  Yes ;  a  sign  I  am  growing  inane  and  respecta- 
ble." 

"  I  can  imagine  you  one  about  as  easily  as  the 
other." 

"That  is  bitter-sweet ;  a  compliment  and  a  flout." 

"  If  I  had  said  that,"  Helen  observed,  smiling, 
"you  would  have  retorted,  with  a  look  of  gloomy 
solemnity,  that  most  things  in  life  are  bitter-sweet ; 
unless,  indeed,  you  felt  called  upon  to  phrase  it 
that  it  had  the  advantage  of  most  earthly  matters 
by  not  being  wholly  bitter." 

"Was  I  ever  guilty  of  such  commonplace  at- 
tempts at  epigrams  as  that  ?  "  returned  Arthur. 
"  If  so  it  is  certainly  a  good  thing  that  I  have 
given  up  repartee  for  matrimony." 

"  Oh,  that  is  brilliant  beside  many  of  your  at- 
tempts, I  assure  you.  And  as  for  your  giving  them 
up — I  reserve  my  decision." 


BEDECKING  ORNAMENTS  OF  PRAISE.       125 

"  You  shall  see,  skeptic,"  he  said  lightly.  "  I 
expect  to  change  the  face  of  the  whole  world  if 
necessary." 

"  It  is  a  common  error  of  ardent  temperaments," 
she  returned  pleasantly,  but  with  evident  sincerity, 
"  to  assume  that  a  state  of  feeling  can  change  the 
world." 

"  But  I  must,  I  will,"  he  began  eagerly.  Then 
the  light  died  out  of  his  face  and  he  ended  with 
a  shrug. 

Helen  put  up  her  hand  with  an  impulsive  ges- 
ture, as  if  about  to  speak. 

Then  letting  her  arms  fall  by  her  side,  she 
turned  to  unlock  the  studio  door,  which  by  this 
time  they  had  reached. 

The  bas-relief  was  still  shrouded  in  its  damp 
envelopes,  which  Helen  carefully  removed,  keep- 
ing Fenton  away,  that  he  might  first  see  the  work 
as  a  whole,  and  not  lose  its  legitimate  effect  by 
catching  fragmentary  glimpses  as  it  was  uncovered. 
When  at  last  it  was  fully  disclosed,  she  called  him 
to  her  as  she  stood  before  it. 

"  By  Jove  !  That's  stunning  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
after  an  instant's  pause,  which  gave  him  time  to 
see  it  fairly.  "  Helen,  you  have  outdone  yourself! 
That  figure  is  simply  superb.  I  hadn't  an  idea 
you  would  come  out  so  well.  I'm  wonderfully 
proud  of  you." 

"You  are  more  amiable  than  ever,"  she  re- 
sponded ;  but  her  flushed  cheek  showed  that  she 


1 26  THE  PAGANS. 

Vvas  touched  by  his  earnest  praise.  "  For  that 
figure  I  have  to  thank  Ninitta's  posing.  She  is  an 
inspiration." 

"  But  Ninitta  did  not  inspire  that  splendid 
head,"  observed  Arthur,  pointing  with  his  cane  at 
the  December,  "  and  you  evidently  did  that  con 
amore.  By  Jove !  It's  Grant  Herman,  as  I  live  ! " 

As  he  spoke  he  turned  and  saw  Ninitta  on  the 
threshold. 

"  Shall  you  want  me  to-day  ?  "  the  latter  asked 
of  Helen. 

"  What  made  that  girl  look  so  savage  ?  "  Fen- 
ton  questioned  as  the  door  closed  behind  the 
model. 

"  She  perhaps  chooses  to  be  jealous  of  me," 
Helen  replied  composedly. 

"  Elle  a  pent  for e  raison" 

11  Perhaps." 

"  You  say  that  too  calmly  by  half,"  was  his  gay 
response.  "  Yet  as  every  work  a  woman  does  has 
a  man  for  its  end — I  learned  that  from  the 
classics ;  Penelope,  you  know,  and  even  wash- 
woman Nausicaa — I  suppose  it  is  fair  to  assume 
this  had.  Only  who  is  the  man  ?  " 

Helen  flushed  slightly.  She  recalled  the  am- 
bition with  which  she  had  begun  this  work,  to 
make  the  man  beside  her  praise  its  completion  ; 
and  she  was  conscious  that  before  she  finished 
it  was  the  praise  of  Herman  for  which  she 
strove. 


BEDECKING  ORNAMENTS  OF  PRAISE.       127 

"  It  is  filthy  lucre  that  inspires  me,"  she  replied 
steadily.  "  I  need  no  other  incentive." 

They  walked  about  the  studio,  talking  of  the 
bas-relief  as  seen  from  different  points ;  of  how  it 
was  to  be  cut  for  firing ;  and  on  the  safe  ground 
of  art  they  forgot  all  personal  constraints,  until 
the  striking  of  a  clock  aroused  Fenton  to  a  sense 
of  the  flight  of  time. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said.  "  I  am  no  end  glad  I 
came.  The  truth  is  I  am  not  very  well  acquainted 
with  this  married  man,  and  it  is  comfortable  to 
slip  back  occasionally  into  a  familiar  bachelor 
mood.  However,"  he  continued  with  his  brightest 
smile,  "  I  like  the  Benedick  far  better  than  I 
should  ever  have  dreamed  possible ;  and  his  wife 
is  charming.  And  I  want  to  say,  too,"  he  added, 
"  that  I  have  a  thousand  times  thanked  you  for 
taking  that  vial  before  I  went  to  be  married.  I'm 
in  a  spasm  of  virtuousness  just  now,  and  it  is 
pleasant  to  remember  that  I  did  not  have  it  that 
day." 

They  went  down  stairs  and  out  into  the  soft, 
spring-like  day,  sauntering  homeward  in  a  happy 
and  accordant  mood.  Arthur  urged  Helen's  going 
home  to  lunch  with  himself  and  Edith,  but  to 
Helen  the  morning  was  far  too  precious  to  be 
ended  in  a  possibly  inharmonious  meeting  with 
Mrs.  Fenton. 

And  that  afternoon  Herman  sent  for  Mrs. 
Greyson  in  all  haste.  Ninitta  had  vented  her 


128  THE  PAGANS. 

jealous  rage  upon  the  bas-relief,  destroying  the 
head  of  December  which  she  heard  Fenton  say 
must  have  been  done  con  amore,  and  the  beautiful 
May  for  which  she  herself  had  posed. 


XIX. 

NOW  HE  IS  FOR  THE  NUMBERS. 

Romeo  and  Juliet  ;  ii. — 4. 

MRS.  FENTON'S  wedding  reception  was 
largely  attended.  However  strongly  the 
artist  might  savor  of  Bohemianism,  .his  wife  was 
connected  with  certain  prominent  Philistines,  and 
he  had  exhibited  a  most  remarkable  readiness  to 
have  them  present  in  force. 

"  Into  the  camp  of  Philistia  itself,"  muttered 
Rangely  to  Bently,  as  they  elbowed  their  way 
through  the  crowd.  "  By  the  great  horn  spoon, 
if  there  isn't  Peter  Calvin !  Arthur  calls  him  the 
Great  Boston  Art  Greek.  That  ever  I  should  live 
to  see  the  humbug  under  Fenton's  roof-tree !  " 

"  Pshaw ! "  returned  Bently  with  an  oath. 
"  What  a  set  of  rubbishy  old  fobs  and  dowagers 
there  is  here  anyway.  Is  this  the  kind  of  people 
Fenton  means  to  know?" 

"  Means  to  know,"  echoed  Rangely.  "  He's  got 
to  go  down  on  his  marrow  bones  to  get  them  to 
consent  to  know  him.  They  patronize  art,  and 
that  means  that  they  snub  artists." 

"Humph!"  exclaimed  Bently.  "Is  he  syco- 
phant enough  to  do  that  ?  " 


130  THE  PAGAN'S. 

"  That's  as  you  look  at  it.  His  wife  probably 
decides  the  matter  for  him.  She  very  naturally 
likes  to  know  what  she  would  call  '  nice  people.' 
How  those  women  chatter!  I  wonder  what  they 
find  to  talk  about." 

"  Not  necessarily  any  thing.  They  always  talk 
all  the  same  whether  they've  any  thing  to  say  or 
not." 

"  How  much  of  life  is  wasted  in  enduring 
people  for  whom  one  does  not  care,"  philoso- 
phized Rangely,  looking  over  the  throng  which 
filled  to  overflowing  the  Fentons'  somewhat 
limited  rooms.  "  Ah !  There  is  Dr.  Ashton. 
How  do  you  do,  Doctor?" 

"As  well  as  could  be  expected,"  the  Doctor 
answered,  "in  this  antiquated  assembly." 

"  Oh,  Boston  is  only  an  antiquarian  society," 
laughed  Rangely,  "and  these  old  tabbies  are  all 
honorary  members.  By  Jove,  though,  there  are 
some  awfully  pretty  girls  here." 

"  I've  observed  that  Boston  girls  are  apt  to  be 
pretty  when  they  give  their  minds  to  it,"  re- 
marked Bently.  "  Not  when  they  wander  round 
with  Homer  under  one  arm  and  Virgil  under  the 
other  and  dyspepsia  in  the  stomach,  but  when 
they  are  deliberately  frivolous." 

The  throng  separated  them  at  this  moment,  and 
Dr.  Ashton  went  in  search  of  host  and  hostess. 
Arthur  caught  sight  of  his  tall  figure,  and  made  a 
sign  at  once  of  recognition  and  summons.  Strug- 


NOW  HE  IS  FOR  THE  NUMBERS.  131 

gling  between  a  young  Episcopal  clergyman  and  a 
corpulent  old  lady,  Dr.  Ashton  made  his  way  with 
difficulty  to  the  spot  where  his  friend  was  stand- 
ing. 

"  You  are  the  most  married  man  I  know,  Ar- 
thur," was  his  greeting.  "  Brigham  Young  wasn't 
a  circumstance.  I  have  been  half  an  hour  crossing 
the  room." 

"  Dr.  Ashton,  Edith  ;  my  wife,  Will,"  was  the 
only  reply  Fenton  made,  unless  one  could  inter- 
pret the  quizzical  glance  he  bestowed  upon  his 
friend. 

"  I  feel  already  acquainted  with  you,"  was  Mrs. 
Fenton's  remark,  "  I  have  heard  of  you  so  often. 
My  husband  has  spoken  to  me  so  much  of  his 
friends  that  it  is  hard  for  me  to  realize  that  I  do 
not  know  them  myself." 

"  You  have  been  very  little  in  Boston,  I  believe," 
Dr.  Ashton  said,  looking  at  her  in  a  sudden  sur- 
prise at  remembering  that  he  had  seen  her  face 
before. 

"  Very  little,"  replied  she,  "  I  have  been  abroad 
a  great  part  of  my  life  and — " 

New  claims  upon  her  attention  ended  the  con- 
versation with  that  charming  abruptness  char- 
acteristic of  such  an  occasion,  and  the  Doctor  was 
left  to  elbow  his  way  out  of  the  crush,  with  the 
sense  of  having  done  all  that  would  be  required  of 
him.  He  found  a  corner  where  he  could  watch 
the  hostess  and  fell  to  wondering  whether  Mrs. 


132      ,  THE  PAGANS. 

Fenton  in  her  turn  remembered  their  previous 
meeting. 

Edith  Fenton  was  a  slender,  nun-like  woman, 
too  pale,  with  a  smile  of  wonderful  attractiveness. 
"  A  woman  to  wear  lilies,"  was  the  way  Grant  Her- 
man  put  it  afterward  ;  a  remark  which  conveyed 
well  the  purity  of  her  face.  Her  ease  of  manner 
showed  familiarity  with  the  conventionalities  of 
life,  yet  in  some  vague  way  she  seemed  removed 
from  the  peopie  by  whom  she  was  to-day  sur- 
rounded. 

"  She  has  been  brought  up  in  the  old  narrow 
ways,"  Dr.  Ashton  reflected,  "  but  there  are  great 
possibilities  about  her.  She'll  either  be  the  mak- 
ing of  Fenton  or  send  him  to  the  dogs.  She  will 
scarcely  find  much  room  in  her  house  for  many  of 
his  former  friends,  I  fancy." 

He  stood  watching  the  people  and  amusing  him- 
self with  cynical  speculations  until  he  saw  Grant 
Herman's  great  figure  among  the  guests.  He 
knew  him  but  slightly  and  looked  at  him  with  an 
indifference  which  a  couple  of  hours  later  he  re- 
gretted. Herman  cared  little  for  the  formalities 
of  the  occasion,  and  very  likely  might  have  gone 
away  without  even  being  presented  to  the  hostess 
had  not  Fred  Rangely  taken  him  in  charge  and 
brought  him  safely  through  that  ceremony.  Now 
the  sculptor  was  looking  for  Mrs.  Greyson,  of 
whom  he  soon  caught  sight,  when  he  began  mak- 
ing his  way  towards  her.  She  however  perceived 


NOW  HE  IS  FOR  THE  NUMBERS.  133 

him,  and  with  the  feeling  that  she  could  not  bear 
to  meet  him  in  public  just  at  1  his  time,  she  evaded 
him  by  slipping  into  the  window  where  her  hus- 
band was  ensconced. 

"  Take  me  out  of  this,  please,"  she  said,  "  I  am 
tired." 

He  gave  her  his  arm  without  speaking,  and  to- 
gether they  made  their  way  from  the  room. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  he  remarked  easily. 
"  Mayn't  I  walk  home  with  you  ?" 

When  she  was  ready  they  went  together  out 
into  the  starlit  streets.  Neither  spoke  at  first,  each 
carrying  on  a  train  of  thought  to  which  the  other 
could  have  no  adequate  clew. 

"  Who  is  Arthur's  wife?  "  Dr.  Ashton  asked  at 
length.  "  I  know  she  was  a  Miss  Caldwell,  that 
she  came  from  Providence,  and  that  she  has  been 
an  orphan  so  short  a  time  that  they  had  a  perfectly 
quiet  wedding  ;  but  that  is  the  extent  of  my 
knowledge.  Is  she  an  artist?  " 

"An  amateur,"  answered  Helen.  "  She  studied 
in  Paris.  He  met  her  there.  She  is  a  relative, 
I  forget  just  how  far  or  near,  of  Peter  Calvin. 
She  seems  to  me  an  icicle.  Think  of  Arthur's  mar- 
rying a  religieuse  !  " 

"  What  is  his  game,  I  wonder,"  said  her  com- 
panion thoughtfully.  "  D6  you  know  when  she 
was  in  Paris  ?  Was  it  when  we  were  there." 

"  Let  me  see,"  Helen  responded,  with  a  mental 
calculation.  "  Yes  ;  she  must  have  been  there  the 


134  THE  PAGANS. 

last  year  we  were.  Why  ?  Did  you  ever  meet 
her?" 

"  Perhaps,"  was  the  careless  reply. 

They  reached  Helen's  door  as  he  spoke. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said.  "  Fortunately  I  can  make 
you  a  salad.  It  is  a  long  time  since  we  had  &  petit 
souper  together.  I  have,  too,  something  to  say  to 
you." 

He  followed  her  to  the  pretty  parlor,  and  sat 
idly  chatting  while  she  made  her  preparations  for 
the  supper. 


XX. 

THE  WORLD  IS   STILL  DECEIVED. 

Merchant  of  Venice  ;  iii. — 2. 

IT  was  a  dainty  little  table  to  which  Helen  in. 
vited  her  husband  when  every  thing  was  ready. 
The  china  was  of  odd  bits  picked  up  here  and 
there  abroad,  and  it  was  now  disposed  with  an 
artist's  eye  for  color  and  grouping.  A  tall  bottle 
of  Rhine  wine  had  come  from  some  mysterious 
nook,  and  beside  it  were  a  pair  of  fine  old  German 
glasses,  frail  as  bubbles. 

"  I  have  always  to  offer  my  guests  Rhine  wine," 
Helen  said,  "  for  I've  no  glasses  for  any  thing  else. 
Arthur  is  ungracious  enough  to  object.  He  does 
not  like  white  wine  as  you  do." 

"  I  do  like  it,"  her  guest  answered,  drawing  the 
cork, "  and  so  does  Arthur,  only  he  does  not  know 
it.  He  has  somewhere  stumbled  upon  the  whim 
of  pretending  not  to,  and  he  can  deceive  himself 
more  completely  than  any  other  man  I  ever  saw. 
Rhine  wine  is  the  most  poetic  of  beverages.  It 
should  go  down  like  oil  and  only  leave  a  fragrance 
like  a  poet's  dream  behind  it." 

"  That  is  quite  a  rhapsody  for  you,  Will ;  only 
your  cool  tone  gives  it  a  certain  cynical  flavor." 


136  THE  PAGANS. 

"  I  mean  all  I  say,  I  assure  you.  Champagne  is 
vulgar.  It  is  the  drink  of  self-made  snobs  and 
cads  who  wish  to  pass  for  men  of  the  world ;  but 
Rhine  wine  is  the  drink  for  poets  and  artists." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  you  defend  it ;  it  is 
very  good  of  you,  when  I  happen  to  know  you  are 
not  fond  of  it.  It  is  a  graceful  return  for  my  in- 
hospitality  in  not  giving  you  your  favorite  Bur- 
gundy, but  I  haven't  a  drop." 

"  Oh,  don't  mind  the  wine  !  I  came  to  see  you," 
Dr.  Ashton  said,  with  his  delightful  smile.  "  How 
droll  it  was  to  see  Arthur  to-day.  Do  you  think 
he  has  really  persuaded  himself  he  is  in  love  with 
his  wife  ?  " 

"Arthur  has  great  adaptability,"  Helen  re- 
turned. "I  think  he  believes  he  is  in  love.  I'm 
sure  I  hope  you'll  not  feel  it  your  duty  to  tell  him 
he  isn't." 

"I'm  not  Mephistopheles,"  answered  Dr.  Ash- 
ton,  smiling,  and  watching  appreciatively  as  she 
made  the  salad. 

Mrs.  Greyson  had  dressed  carefully  for  the  re- 
ception from  which  she  had  just  come,  and  her 
cream-colored  cashmere,  with  soft  old  thread  lace, 
and  a  bunch  of  amber-hued  roses  at  the  throat, 
became  her  as  only  a  dress  chosen  by  an  artist 
could.  It  fell  away  from  her  exquisite  arms,  and 
from  among  the  lace  rose  her  beautiful  neck,  the 
stuff  of  her  gown  setting  off  the  lovely  texture  of 
her  skin  to  perfection. 


THE   WORLD  IS  STILL  DECEIVED.  137 

"  I  must  not  ruin  my  best  attire,"  she  said 
lightly,  gathering  it  up.  "  Now  Ninitta  has  spoiled 
my  bas-relief,  it  may  be  long  before  I  get  more.  I 
owe  you  a  good  deal,  Will,  for  letting  me  study 
modeling  in  Paris." 

"  It  was  pure  selfishness,"  he  returned  good- 
humoredly.  "  I  wanted  to  keep  you  busy  so  that 
I  might  go  my  own  way.  But  what  about  your 
bas-relief  ?  Who  spoiled  it  ?  Who  is  Ninitta,  and 
what  has  she  against  you  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you." 

She  did  not  speak  again  for  a  moment,  seeming- 
ly intent  upon  the  exact  measurement  of  the  in- 
gredients of  her  salad.  In  reality  she  was  consid- 
ering how  best  to  present  what  she  had  to  say. 
She  mentally  ran  over  the  points  she  wished  to 
make,  becoming  thereby  conscious  that  she  had 
herself  come  to  no  definite  conclusions  upon  the 
topic  she  was  about  to  discuss.  She  looked  furtive- 
ly at  her  husband,  noting  his  attitude,  his  expres- 
sion, and  whatever  her  past  experience  enabled 
her  to  construe  into  indications  of  his  mood.  As 
well  and  as  long  as  she  had  known  this  man,  she 
was  still  ignorant  of  the  key  to  his  nature — that 
feeling  or  motive  which,  touched  in  an  ultimate 
appeal,  would  always  insure  a  response.  Con- 
science is  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  experience,  and, 
taken  in  this  sense,  every  man  must  be  possessed 
of  a  conscience,  which  by  its  inner  voice  re-enforces 
any  pleading  which  coincides  with  its  dictates. 


138  THE  PAGANS. 

What  was  the  nature  of  her  husband's  inward 
monitor  Helen  had  never  been  able  to  discover  and 
at  this  moment  she  realized  keenly  her  ignorance. 

"Will,"  she  said  earnestly,  laying  down  her 
salad-fork  and  spoon,  "  I  think  it  is  wrong  for  us 
to  live  as  we  do." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  looking  at  her  curi- 
ously. 

"  I  cannot  flatter  myself  that  you  care  to  return 
to  the  old  uncomfortableness." 

She  flushed  warmly,  with  a  keen  pang  of  mingled 
pain  and  indignation. 

"  No,"  she  replied.  "  No ;  never  that.  It  is  not 
for  ourselves,  but  for  others." 

"  Others !     Fenton  ?  " 

She  flushed  more  deeply  still. 

"  I  have  told  you  already  that  you  are  mistaken 
about  my  regard  for  Arthur.  It  was  not  he  I 
meant." 

She  served  her  guest,  and  sat  playing  nervously 
with  her  fork  as  he  ate  and  praised  the  salad. 

"Mr.  Herman  sent  for  me  the  other  afternoon," 
she  began  again,  forcing  herself  to  speak  calmly. 
"  My  model  Ninitta  is  very  fond  of  him,  and  chose 
to  be  jealous  of  his  praise  of  my  work.  It  might 
have  all  gone  over  without  an  outburst,  I  suppose, 
if  she  had  not  had  her  attention  called  to  the  fact 
that  I  had  modeled  his  head  for  December.  Why 
she  had  never  happened  to  notice  it  I  don't  know  ; 
she  was  in  the  studio  constantly." 


THE   WORLD  IS  STILL  DECEIVED.  139 

"  Not  when  he  was  there  ?  "  queried  Dr.  Ash- 
ton,  holding  up  his  graceful,  antique  wine-glass 
and  admiring  it. 

"  No,  not  when  he  was  there,"  repeated  his  wife. 
"  She  had  pounded  off  the  head  when  he  sent  for 
me  with  a  mallet  she  had  picked  up  in  his 
studio.  I  never  saw  him  in  such  a  rage.  She  was 
gone  when  I  got  there.  She  didn't  make  any  at- 
tempt to  conceal  it.  She  came  stalking  melo- 
dramatically into  his  studio  with  the  mallet 
and  laid  it  down.  '  There/  said  she,  '  now  kill 
me.  I  have  broken  her  work.'  It  was  like  a  fash- 
ion magazine  story.  He  thought  at  first  she  had 
gone  mad." 

"  So  she  had.  Women  are  always  insane  when 
they  are  jealous.  I  wish  I  had  Arthur's  knack  at 
epigram,  and  I'd  make  that  sound  original." 

"  He  says  he  was  very  harsh,"  Helen  contin- 
ued, "  though  I  fancy  he  could  not  be  quite  that 
in  any  circumstances.  It  was  very  hard,"  she 
added  with  a  sigh.  "It  was  like  looking  at  a 
dead  child  to  see  my  best  work  ruined.  It  was 
really  a  part  of  myself." 

"  But  can't  it  be  repaired  ?  It  was  in  the  clay, 
wasn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  fear  for  my  exhausted  enthusiasm. 
I  can  never  do  it  as  it  was  before.  My  poor,  un- 
lucky December." 

She  toyed  with  her  glass  absently,  apparently 
for  the  moment  forgetting  her  companion,  who 


140  THE  PAGANS. 

continued  his  supper  with  no  less  relish  than  be- 
fore. He  watched  her  keenly,  however,  fully 
aware  that  there  was  more  to  be  told.  He  was 
a  man  too  accustomed  to  follow  any  desire  or  in- 
dulge any  whim  not  to  notice  appreciatively,  as 
he  had  noticed  many  times  before,  how  beautiful 
were  the  curves  of  his  wife's  arms  and  throat,  and 
with  what  grace  her  head  was  poised.  He  had 
once  defined  a  liberal  man  as  one  who  could  ap- 
preciate his  own  wife,  and  he  would  have  been  far 
more  insensible  than  he  was,  if,  with  this  beauti- 
ful woman  before  him  he  had  not  bsen,  judged  by 
his  own  standard,  extremely  liberal. 

"  And  this  has  what  to  do  with  the  question  of 
our  relations  being  known  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  started  from  her  reverie,  the  red  again 
showing  faintly  in  her  cheek. 

"  It  is  hardly  fair,"  she  answered  in  a  tone  softer 
and  lower  than  that  in  which  she  had  been  speak- 
ing, "  to  tell  you  all  that  Mr.  Herman  said.  He 
wishes  to  marry  me." 

"And  you  wish  you  were  free  to  have  it  so?" 

There  was  once  more  a  pause.  Helen  busied 
herself  in  an  elaborate  arrangement  of  the  torn 
lettuce  leaves  upon  her  plate,  seemingly  concen- 
trating all  her  thoughts  upon  forming  them  into 
an  intricate  figure. 

"Will,"  she  said,  suddenly,  lifting  her  eyes  and 
leaning  towards  him,  "  I  do  not  know  how  to  make 
you  understand.  I  haven't  succeeded  so  well  in 


THE   WORLD  IS  STILL  DECEIVED.  141 

my  attempts  thus  far  in  life  -as  to  be  very  sanguine 
of  doing  it  now.  You  do  not  know  how  ashamed 
and  contemptible  I  felt  for  being  party  to  the 
deception  that  made  it  possible  for  him  to  speak 
so  to  me.  He  was  so  honest,  so  earnest ;  he  was 
so  unconscious  of  the  barriers  between  us.  I  felt 
that  I  had  done  him  such  an  irreparable  wrong  by 
concealing  the  truth.  He  had  a  right  to  know 
that  I  am  a  married  woman." 

"Did  you  tell  him?" 

"  No  ;  but  I  must.  I  want  to  be  free  from  the 
promise  we  made  to  each  other." 

"  It  all  comes,"  returned  her  husband  without 
any  show  of  irritation,  "  from  my  telling  Fenton." 

"  I  cannot  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it.  I 
like  the  absence  from  questioning,  the  avoidance 
of  gossip,  as  much  as  you  can ;  but  it  makes  me 
feel  as  if  I  were  a  living  lie  to  have  Mr.  Herman 
bringing  his  honest  love  to  me  to  be  met  only  by 
deception.  It  is  cruel  and  it  is  wrong." 

"  That  depends  entirely  upon  how  you  define 
wrong,"  retorted  Dr.  Ashton  coolly.  "  I  do  not 
see  why  it  is  wrong  for  me  to  decline  to  sacrifice 
my  convenience  to  Mr.  Herman's  sentiment.  But 
without  going  into  the  question  of  metaphysics, 
let  us  look  at  the  matter  reasonably.  Do  you 
love  Mr.  Herman  ?  " 

Notwithstanding  the  studied  nonchalance  of  his 
tone,  a  glance  into  his  eyes  might  have  shown 
Helen  how  much  importance  he  attached  to  her 


142  THE  PAGANS. 

answer.  A  woman  is  peculiarly  dangerous  when 
she  is  telling  one  man  that  another  loves  her.  The 
masculine  greed  of  possession  is  aroused  by  the 
mere  thought  of  a  possible  rival,  and  Dr.  Ash- 
ton  was  conscious  at  this  moment  of  a  kindling 
desire  himself  to  win  Helen's  love,  which  he  knew 
perfectly  well  had  never  been  his. 

"  That  is  not  at  all  relevant,"  was  her  reply,  her 
eyes  downcast.  "The  question  of  honesty,  is 
enough  now.  At  least  I  respect  Mr.  Herman, 
and  I  must  treat  him  squarely,  as  you  would  say. 
You  have  always  told  me  to  be  '  a  square  fellow,' 
you  know,"  she  added,  raising  her  glance  with  a 
faint  smile. 

"  But  if  you  tell  him,"  said  her  husband,  with  a 
subtle  tinge  of  impatience  in  his  tone,  "  others 
must  know.  You  can't  go  on  letting  one  after 
another  into  the  secret  without  its  soon  becoming 
public  property." 

"  Why  not  then  ?  "  she  responded.  "  I  wonder 
we  have  been  able  to  keep  it  so  long.  It  is  sure 
to  be  known  now  you  have  come  home.  I  do 
not  mean  to  proclaim  it  upon  the  housetops  ;  but 
to  let  it  work  out  if  it  will.  What  harm  can  it  do?  " 

"  It  will  harm  me.  My  life  is  not  so  secluded 
as  yours  is,  Helen.  It  will  make  things  con- 
foundedly awkward.  I  shall  have  to  go  about 
giving  endless  explanations.  Besides,  here  is 
Arthur's  wife.  I  particularly  don  t  want  her  to 
know." 


THE   WORLD  IS  STILL  DECEIVED.  143 

"  Why  not?  It  is  precisely  that  I  was  coming 
to.  She  seems  to  feel  far  more  kindly  to  me  than 
I  should  have  supposed  possible.  I  can't  lie  to 
her,  Will.  She  has  already  asked  me  questions 
about  my  past  life  hard  to  answer.  I  want  to  tell 
her,  so  that  we  may  have  an  honest  basis  for  our 
friendship.  I  don't  want  to  lose  my  hold  on  her." 

"  Nor  on  Arthur,"  acquiesced  he  gravely.  "  It 
is  for  that  reason  that  I  say  you  had  better  not  tell 
her.  I  usually  know  what  I  am  saying,  do  I  not  ? 
I  tell  you  it  is  for  your  own  sake  that  I  warn  you 
to  be  quiet.  Arthur  isn't  going  to  be  held  in  the 
leash  very  long  by  that  piece  of  china-ware  piety, 
and  it  is  to  you  he  will  naturally  turn  for  sympa- 
thy. Don't  spoil  your  chance  of  his  friendship 
by  breaking  with  her  yet." 

"  Will,"  his  wife  said,  with  a  glitter  in  her  eyes 
he  knew  of  old,  "  sometimes  you  talk  like  a  very 
fiend  incarnate." 

"  That,"  he  replied  rising,  "  is  precisely  what  I 
am.  There  are  a  few  rare,  but  fairly  well  authen- 
ticated cases  on  record,  Helen,  where  a  man  under 
stress  of  circumstances,  has  been  able  to  keep  his 
own  counsel ;  women  without  a  confidant  go  mad. 
For  your  own  sake  you'd  better  trust  me,  now 
that  Arthur  isn't  available  ;  so  I'll  come  and  see 
you  again.  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  this  jolly  little 
supper.  Your  salads  always  were  perfection.  I'd 
like  to  stay  and  have  you  make  me  some  coffee, 
but  I  have  an  engagement  at  twelve.  Good-night." 


XXI. 

HIS  PURE  HEART'S  TRUTH. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  ;  iv. — 2. 

WHEN  Grant  Herman  attempted  to  speak  with 
Mrs  Greyson  at  the  Fenton's  reception,  he 
had  more  in  view  than  simply  the  desire  of  being 
near  the  woman  he  loved.  He  was  full  of  trouble 
and  bewilderment,  and  instinctively  turned  toward 
her  for  aid  and  sympathy. 

The  scene  between  himself  and  Helen,  to  which 
the  latter  had  alluded  in  her  conversation  with 
Dr.  Ashton,  was  of  far  deeper  import  than  her 
words  might  have  seemed  to  imply.  In  the  first 
shock  of  discovering  that  her  work  was  broken 
she  had  been  so  overcome,  that  although  she 
struggled  bravely  to  conceal  her  feelings,  she  had 
excited  the  sculptor's  keenest  pity;  and  it  not  un- 
naturally followed  that  in  attempting  to  ex- 
press his  sympathy  he  found  himself  telling  his  love 
before  he  was  aware.  He  had  determined  to  be 
silent  upon  this  subject.  Uncertain  what  were 
Helen's  feelings  towards  him  and  restrained  by  a 
sense  of  loyalty  to  the  bond  which  united  him  to 
Ninitta,  he  had  resolved  to  bury  his  love  in  his 
own  breast,  at  least  until  time  gave  him  opportu- 


HIS  PURE  HEARTS  TRUTH.  145 

nity  of  honorably  declaring  it.  Now  circumstances 
betrayed  him  into  an  avowal  of  his  passion ;  and 
he  was  not  without  the  indignant  feeling  that  Ni- 
nitta's  act  had  freed  him  from  all  obligations  to 
her.  It  might  have  required  an  ingenious  casuist 
to  arrive  logically  at  the  conclusion  that  an  injury 
which  the  Italian  had  done  to  another  released 
him  from  his  plighted  word,  but  the  person  in- 
jured was  the  woman  he  loved,  and  he  blindly  felt 
that  Ninitta  had  struck  at  himself  through  his 
most  sensitive  feelings.  He  renounced  all  the 
fealty  to  which  he  had  been  held  by  a  sense  of 
honor,  and  he  now  poured  out  to  Helen  the  full 
tide  of  his  passionate  love. 

The  sculptor  was  not  a  man  to  be  lightly  moved, 
but  it  is  these  calm,  grave  natures  that  once  aroused 
are  most  irresistible.  His  passionate  outburst 
took  Helen  unaware  ;  she  scarcely  knew  what  she 
did,  and  she  became  suddenly  aware  of  a  truth  so 
overwhelming  that  every  thing  else  faded  into  in- 
significance beside  it. 

"  I  love  you  ! "  he  cried  out ;  and  at  the  word 
she  first  knew,  with  a  poignant  pang  of  mingled 
bliss  and  anguish,  that  she  too  loved  him. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  some  power  above  her 
own  volition  ruled  her,  as  in  moments  of  high  ex- 
citement the  body  sometimes  appears  to  declare 
its  independence  of  the  will,  and  to  act  wholly  by 
its  own  decisions.  She  was  aware  that  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  his,  although  she  would  have  given 


146  THE  PAGANS. 

much  to  avoid  his  glance ;  and  she  knew  that  it 
was  from  what  he  read  there  that  he  took  cour- 
age to  fold  her  in  his  embrace. 

Yet  with  his  arms  about  her  and  his  piercing 
kisses  upon  her  face,  Helen  felt  as  if  sinking  help- 
lessly into  a  mighty  ocean ;  as  if  all  struggles 
must  be  unavailing,  and  she  could  only  yield  to 
the  resistless  love  which  engulfed  her. 

From  this  first  feeling  of  powerlessness,  how- 
ever, her  strong  nature  sprang  with  a  sharp  recoil. 
She  was  too  noble  to  surrender  without  a  struggle. 
She  would  not  even  think  whether  she  loved  this 
man  ;  that  might  be  considered  upon  some  safe 
vantage  ground  ;  now  all  energy  must  be  concen- 
trated upon  escaping  from  the  deadly  peril  in 
which  she  found  herself. 

Helen  had  freed  herself  as  far  as  she  was  able 
from  the  marriage  bond  which  had  so  galled  her, 
and  she  was  glad  to  forget  that  such  a  tie  had  ever 
existed,  but  she  yet  remembered  that  she  was  still 
a  wife,  and  the  kiss  of  a  man  not  her  husband 
overwhelmed  her  with  shuddering  humiliation 
and  fear.  She  struggled  from  her  lover's  embrace 
with  such  an  expression  of  terror  upon  her  face, 
that  he  started  back  amazed  and  grieved. 

He  began  to  stammer  confused  words  of  con- 
trition, of  sorrow,  of  love,  and  of  supplication. 

"  How  could  you  !  "  she  gasped.  "  Oh,  leave 
me!" 

There  came  into  her  excited  mind  a  way  of  es- 


HIS  PURE  HEARTS  TRUTH.  147 

cape,  upon  which,  even  though  it  brought  with  it  a 
sense  of  baseness,  she  seized  in  despair. 

"  Ninitta,"  she  said.     "  Ninitta  !  " 

He  gave  her  a  look  of  pain  which  went  to  her 
very  heart.  He  did  not  move  or  answer,  but  his 
whole  soul  seemed  to  look  through  his  dark  eyes 
in  pitiful  appeal. 

"  Go,"  she  continued,  but  in  a  hurried  voice 
which  betrayed  her  agitation.  "  Leave  me  now. 
Oh,  I  cannot  bear  it !  " 

And  crushed  with  pain  and  shame,  she  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands  and  burst  into  tears. 

Herman  made  a  step  towards  her,  but  instantly 
she  recovered  herself,  looking  up  with  swimming 
eyes  and  lips  that  quivered  despite  her  utmost 
effort. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  do  not  touch  me.  You  must 
go.  I  cannot  bear  another  word.  Forgive  me," 
she  went  on  rapidly,  as  he  hesitated,  still  with 
those  appealing  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  "  Oh,  for- 
give me,  but  go." 

He  turned  slowly  and  moved  towards  the  door. 
The  broken  bas-relief,  with  its  beautiful  mutilated 
figure  caught  his  eye,  and  seemed  again  to  remind 
him  that  he  had  at  last  a  right  to  speak  to  Helen, 
unhampered  by  the  thought  of  Ninitta.  He 
looked  back  as  if  he  would  even  now  disobey  her 
and  plead  his  love  anew.  But  her  eyes  refused 
his  prayer  before  it  could  be  uttered.  He  lingered 
still  an  instant. 


148  THE  PAGANS. 

"  I  cannot  go,"  he  broke  out  suddenly.  "  I 
love  you  !  I  must  stay !  I  must  at  least  have  an 
answer.  Do  you  think  a  man  could  kiss  you 
once  and  then  leave  you  like  this  ?  " 

She  shivered  as  if  she  felt  anew  his  passionate 
embrace  and  shrank  from  it.  She  threw  her 
glance  about  as  to  discover  some  means  of 
escape.  The  gesture,  the  look,  overwhelmed  him 
with  sudden  remorse.  He  trusted  himself  not  for 
a  single  backward  look  now,  but  rushed  out  of  the 
studio,  leaving  her  sitting  there  like  the  princess 
of  the  fairy  tale  who  overcame  the  genii  only  by 
recourse  to  immortal  fire  which  consumed  her  also. 

Alone  in  his  studio  the  sculptor  strode  up  and 
down,  struggling  with  the  emotion  which  mastered 
him.  He  debated  with  himself  whether  Helen 
loved  him  or  not ;  yet  the  more  carefully  he  re- 
called his  interview  with  her,  the  more  impossible 
he  found  it  to  determine.  But  hope  plucked 
courage  out  of  this  very  uncertainty,  and  clung  to 
the  belief  that  had  not  Helen  in  her  heart  some 
affection  for  him,  she  could  not  have  been  so 
touched. 

But  what  of  Ninitta  ?  He  threw  back  his  head 
and  walked  down  the  studio,  his  steps  sounding 
sharply  upon  the  hard  cement  floor.  What  of 
Ninitta?  He  had  absurdly  dallied  with  his  sup- 
posed obligations  to  her  long  enough.  Now,  at 
least,  after  this  outrage,  he  repeated  to  himself,  he 
was  free.  He  was  at  liberty  now — if  indeed  he 


HIS  PURE  HEART'S  TRUTH.  149 

had  not  always  been — to  consider  what  he  owed 
to  himself ;  what  to  the  woman  he  loved. 

He  recalled  the  hot  words  he  had  spoken  to  the 
model  earlier  in  the  afternoon  when  the  anger  of 
discovery  was  fresh  upon  him,  and  he  felt  a  pang 
of  self-reproach.  He  could  not  but  know  how 
poignant  to  Ninitta  must  be  the  grief  of  giving 
him  up,  although  he  assured  himself  that  in  the 
long  years  of  separation  she  must  have  become 
accustomed  to  live  without  him,  and  that  her 
grief  would  be  rather  fancied  than  real.  Yet  he 
was  too  tender-hearted  to  be  wholly  at  ease  after 
all  his  reasoning.  He  at  last  started  out  to  find 
Ninitta,  perhaps  to  comfort  her,  perhaps  to  cast 
her  off  forever.  At  least  to  come  to  some  definite 
conclusion  of  their  doubtful  relations. 

But  Ninitta  was  not  to  be  found.  She  was  not 
in  her  attic  ;  nor  did  she  return  that  night,  nor 
the  next  day,  nor  yet  the  following ;  and  it  was 
to  tell  of  the  model's  disappearance,  and  to  ask 
aid  in  tracing  her,  that  Herman  had  wished  to 
speak  to  Helen  at  the  Fenton's  reception. 


XXII. 

UPON  A  CHURCH   BENCH. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing  ;  iii. — 3. 

HERMAN  did  not  see  Helen  for  several  days 
after  the  reception,  but  she  came  down  to 
the  studio  Sunday  afternoon  to  begin  the  repair- 
ing  of  her  mutilated  bas-relief.  The  sculptor 
heard  her  step  pass  his  door,  and  felt  a  thrill  at 
the  sound  for  which  he  had  longingly  waited 
every  waking  hour  since  he  had  heard  Helen  go 
out  upon  the  night  of  Ninitta's  disappearance. 

He  waited  what  seemed  to  him  a  long  time, 
forcing  himself  to  perform  certain  trifling  things 
needful  in  the  studio,  yet  Mrs.  Greyson  had  only 
been  able  to  get  fairly  to  work  before  she  heard 
his  footstep,  and  then  his  tap  upon  her  door. 

He  entered  the  studio  almost  hesitatingly,  and 
after  the  usual  greetings  stood  looking  gravely  at 
the  disfigured  clay. 

"  I  began  to  think  you  were  never  coming  to 
restore  it,"  he  remarked,  breaking  at  last  the 
silence. 

"  I  could  not  bear  to  touch  it,"  she  returned, 
not  caring  to  confess  that  she  had  also  wished  to 
avoid  him  until  time  should  have  restored  his 


UPON"  A  CHUXCH  BENCH.  151 

usual  self-control.  "  But  I  determined  yesterday 
to  begin  this  morning,  only  strangely  enough  I 
went  to  church  for  the  first  time  since  I  came 
from  Europe." 

"  Ah  !  "  returned  Herman  smiling.  "  I  often  go 
to  church  when  I  am  not  too  busy." 

"  I  hardly  supposed  that  a  Pajan  was  guilty  of 
going  to  any  church  where  he  could  not  worship 
Pasht." 

"  One  can  worship  whatever  deity  he  pleases  in 
whatever  temple,  I  suppose,"  was  his  rejoinder. 
"  I'm  catholic  in  my  tastes.  I  do  not  so  much 
mind  what  people  worship,  if  they  are  only  sin- 
cere about  it." 

"It  must  be  a  great  comfort  to  believe  every 
thing,  if  one  only  could." 

"  There  is  often  danger,"  he  observed,  "  that 
we  assume  it  to  be  a  weakness  to  believe  any 
thing." 

"  It  is,  I'm  afraid,"  replied  she,  turning  her  face 
from  him  and  seemingly  intent  upon  her  model' 
ing. 

"At  least  we  believe  in  work,"  Herman 
answered,  "  else  we  are  not  artists.  You  cer- 
tainly find  joy  and  support  in  your  art." 

"Yes,"  Helen  said  with  a  sigh;  "but  I  fancy 
the  joy  of  creation,  great  as  it  is,  can  never  be  so 
satisfying  to  a  woman  as  to  a  man.  It  is  humili- 
ating to  confess — or  it  is  presumptuous  to  boast, 
I  am  not  sure  which — but  a  woman  is  never  so 


152  THE  PAGANS. 

fully  an  artist  as  a  man.  He  is  in  great  moments 
all  artist ;  but  a  woman  is  never  able  to  lay  her- 
self aside  even  in  her  most  imaginative  moods." 

"  I  cannot  think  you  wholly  right,"  her  master 
returned  smiling;  "but  to  go  back  a  little,  at 
least  faith  is  woman's  peculiar  province  and  pre- 
rogative. We  seem  nowadays  to  pride  ourselves 
upon  being  superior  to  belief  in  any  thing;  but  it 
is  really  a  poor  enough  hypocrisy.  If  we  really 
believed  nothing,  should  we  ever  give  up  a  single 
selfish  desire  or  combat  any  impulse  that  seizes 
us.  For  my  part,  I  am  glad  to  find  men  better 
than  their  professions.  But  this,"  he  added  with 
his  genial  smile,  "  is  more  of  a  sermon,  very 
likely,  than  you  heard  at  church." 

"  I  at  least  agree  with  it  better  than  the  one  I 
heard  at  church  this  morning.  The  preacher 
patronized  the  Deity  so  that  he  shocked  me." 

"That  troubles  me  at  church,"  Herman  as- 
sented; "preachers  are  so  irreverent." 

Helen  stepped  back  to  observe  the  effects  of 
the  work  she  was  doing. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  ventured,  "  that  it  would 
be  possible  for  me  to  induce  Ninitta  to  pose  again 
for  the  May?  If  I  told  her  that  I  am  not  angry, 
that  I  understand,  and  that — 

"  But  Ninitta  is  gone !  "  exclaimed  the  sculptor, 
suddenly  recalled  to  present  difficulties.  "  I  have 
not  been  able  to  find  her  since  the  day  she  did 
this." 


UPON  A   CHURCH  BENCH.  153 

"Gone! "  echoed  Helen  in  dismay;  "  and  you 
cannot  find  her?" 

Herman  related  in  detail  the  steps  he  had  taken 
to  trace  Ninitta,  all  of  which  had  thus  far  proved 
unavailing.  He  had  endeavored  to  avoid  publicity, 
but  he  already  began  to  fear  that  it  would  be 
necessary  to  call  detectives  to  his  aid. 

"  Not  yet,"  Helen  said.  "  Let  me  try  first. 
Have  you  seen  Mr.  Fenton?" 

"  No ;  why  ?  I  have  been  very  cautious.  I 
have  told  nobody  but  Fred  Rangely." 

Helen  reflected  a  moment.  Her  woman's  in- 
stinct told  her  that  it  was  not  likely  Ninitta  would 
put  any  great  distance  between  herself  and  the 
sculptor.  The  model  could  have  but  few  acquain- 
tances in  the  city,  and  as  she  would  need  support 
it  seemed  probable  she  might  try  posing  for  some 
of  the  artists.  As  this  thought  crossed  her  mind, 
Helen  remembered  that  Ninitta  had  promised  to 
pose  for  Fenton  when  no  longer  wanted  for  the 
bas-relief.  It  was  therefore  possible  that  Fenton 
might  know  something  of  the  whereabouts  of  the 
missing  girl ;  and  in  any  case  Helen  had  been  so 
used  to  consulting  the  artist  in  any  perplexity, 
that  it  was  but  natural  for  her  thoughts  to  turn  to 
him  now. 

"  Let  me  try,"  she  repeated.  "  It  will  be  less 
likely  to  excite  talk  if  I  look  for  her ;  she  was  my 
model.  Trust  the  search  to  me  for  a  day  or  two." 

He  was  only  too  glad  to  do  so ;  glad  to  be  re- 


154  THE  PAGANS. 

leased  from  the  burden  of  anxiety,  as  by  virtue  of 
some  subtle  faith  in  Mrs.  Greyson  he  was;  glad  of 
any  thing  in  which  he  might  obey  her  ;  glad  above 
all  of  any  bond  of  common  interest  which  might 
draw  them  nearer  to  each  other,  even  if  it  were 
search  for  the  woman  who  stood  between  them. 

On  her  way  homeward  Helen  went  into  Studio 
Building,  but  before  she  had  climbed  half  way  to 
Fenton's  room,  she  encountered  Dr.  Ashton. 

"  It  is  of  no  use,"  was  his  greeting.  "  He  isn't 
in.  His  wife  has  probably  taken  him  to  church." 

"  He  was  at  church  this  morning,"  Helen 
answered,  putting  her  hand  into  the  one  Dr.  Ash- 
ton  extended.  "  I  saw  him." 

"  Did  you  go  to  church?     What  a  lark." 

"  It  was  rather  a  lark,"  she  assented  ;  "  only  I 
got  wretchedly  blue  before  the  service  was  done." 

"  What  church  was  it?  Mrs.  Fenton  looks  as 
if  she'd  poise  dizzily  on  high  church  altitudes  like 
the  angel  on  St.  Angelo." 

"  So  she  does  ;  she  goes  to  the  Nativity." 

"  How  did  Arthur  look?" 

"  Amused  at  first ;  then  bored ;  then  cross ;  and 
finally,  when  the  sermon  was  well  under  way,  in- 
dignant." 

"And  his  wife?" 

"  His  wife,  Will,"  Helen  said  with  a  sudden 
enthusiasm,  "  looked  like  a  saint.  She  really  be- 
lieves all  these  fables.  I  wish  I  did." 

"  It  will  be  some  fun  to  watch  Arthur's  conver- 


UPON  A  CHURCH  BENCH.  155 

sion  and  backsliding,"  Dr.  Ashton  observed,  "  if 
he  really  gets  far  enough  along  to  be  able  to  back- 
slide. Where  are  you  going?" 

"  To  see  Arthur.     I  have  an  errand." 

"  Do  you  object  to  my  walking  with  you  ?  "  he 
asked  with  a  deference  rare  enough  to  attract  her 
notice. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  trees  on  the  Com- 
mon, as  yet  showing  but  faintest  signs  of  coming 
buds,  stood  out  against  the  saffron  sky.  The  long 
shadows  stretched  softly  over  the  dull  ground, 
while  every  slight  prominence  was  gilded  and 
transfigured  by  the  golden  glow  which  flooded 
from  the  west.  The  atmosphere  had  that  peculiar 
brilliancy  characteristic  of  the  season,  while  the 
cool  and  bracing  air  was  full  of  that  champagne-like 
exhilaration  in  which  lies  at  once  the  fascination 
and  the  fatality  of  the  New  England  climate. 

It  was  some  time  before  either  broke  the 
silence. 

"  How  I  wish,"  at  length  began  Helen  wistfully. 

"  That  shows,"  spoke  her  husband,  as  she  left 
the  sentence  unfinished,  "  that  you  are  still  under 
forty.  When  you  have  quadrupled  your  decades 
you'll  thank  your  stars  for  deliverances  and  ask 
for  nothing  more." 

"  When  I  get  to  that  stage,  then,"  she  returned, 
"  I'll  take  poison." 

"  Is  that  a  hint  ?  " 

"  Life  is  bad  enough  now,"  she  continued  with- 


156  THE  PAGANS. 

out  heeding  the  interruption,  "  but  better  a  bitter 
savor  than  none  at  all." 

"  You  should  devote  yourself  to  cultivating  the 
approval  of  conscience  as  I  do.  I  only  do  what  I 
think  to  be  right,  you  know." 

"  But  think  right  whatever  you  do." 

"  Not  quite  that,"  returned  the  Doctor  with  a 
laugh,  "  but  the  approval  of  my  conscience — 
or  of  my  reason,  which  stands  in  its  place — is 
necessary  to  my  happiness,  so  I  change  my  prin- 
ciples whenever  my  acts  don't  accord  with 
them." 

"  So  do  a  great  many  persons,"  she  responded  ; 
"  perhaps  most  of  us,  for  that  matter,  only  we  are 
seldom  honest  enough  to  own  it." 

"  By  the  way,"  queried  her  companion,  as  they 
approached  her  destination,  "  how  came  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton  so  quickly  domesticated  at  the  Church  of  the 
Nativity  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  young  man  there — a  deacon  or  a 
monk ;  I  never  know  these  high  church  terms ; 
they  are  usually  faded  out  pieces  of  Romanism — 
that  once  wrote  an  article  which  enjoyed  the 
honor  of  being  interred  in  the  Princeton  Review 
when  her  uncle  was  one  of  its  editors." 

They  reached  the  doorsteps  and  Dr.  Ashton 
said  good-by.  Then  he  turned  back. 

"  By  the  by,"  he  said.  "  I  walked  up  with  you 
to  make  you  invite  me  to  supper  again.  I  enjoyed 
the  last  time  very  much." 


UPON  A   CHURCH  BENCH.  157 

"  Did  you  ?  "  returned  his  wife,  rather  carelessly. 
"Come  to-morrow — no,  not  until  Thursday  night. ' 

"  Very  well.  I  am  to  dine  here  then,  and  I'V 
come  and  give  you  an  account  of  my  visit." 


XXIII. 

HEART-SICK  WITH  THOUGHT. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  ;  i. — I. 

Fentons  were  just  going  to  dinner  when 
1  Helen  arrived,  and  she  was  persuaded 
to  dine  with  them.  She  was  not  without  some 
curiosity  to  observe  her  friend  in  his  new  rela- 
tions, and  she  also  found  herself  attracted  by 
Edith,  although  the  two  women  had  apparently 
little  in  common. 

The  talk  at  dinner  flowed  on  easily  enough, 
Arthur  conversing  in  the  strain  which  of  old  Helen 
had  been  pleased  to  call  "  amiable,"  and  which 
fretted  her  by  being  conventional  and  not  wholly 
sincere.  She  liked  the  artist  best  when  he  spoke 
without  restraint,  even  though  she  might  not 
agree  with  his  extravagances  and  often  detected 
a  trace  of  artificiality  in  his  clever  epigrams.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  the  whole  tendency  of  Edith's 
influence  upon  her  husband  was  towards  restraint, 
yet  she  could  not  be  sure  whether  the  ultimate 
result  upon  Fenton's  character  might  not  be 
beneficial. 

"  It  depends  upon  Arthur  himself,"  Helen 
mused.  "  If  he  is  strong  enough  to  endure  the 


HEART- SICK   WITH  THOUGHT.  159 

struggle  of  adapting  his  honest  belief  to 
her  honest  belief,  he  will  be  the  bet- 
ter for  it.  I  hope  his  love  of  ease  will  not 
make  him  evade  the  difficulty.  It  never  used  to 
occur  to  me  how  little  I  really  know  Arthur,  so 
that  I  cannot  tell  how  this  will  be." 

When  the  host  was  enjoying  his  after  dinner 
cigar,  which  by  especial  indulgence  upon  the  part 
of  Edith  he  was  allowed  to  smoke  in  the  parlor, 
Helen  disclosed  the  object  of  her  visit. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  she  asked,  "  that  model 
who  posed  for  my  May,  and  was  to  come  to  you 
next  week  ?  " 

"Ninitta?     Of  course.     What  of  her?" 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  wish  to  find  out,"  she 
responded.  "  She  has  changed  her  address,  and  I 
thought  it  possible  you  might  know  something  of 
her  whereabouts." 

"  I  have  not  seen  her  since  the  morning  when  she 
came  into  your  studio.  Doesn't  Herman  know?  " 

"  The  truth  is,"  Helen  said  slowly,  weighing  her 
words  with  regard  to  their  effect  upon  Edith, 
"  that  she  has  run  away,  and  we  do  not  know  what 
has  become  of  her.  She  went  off  in  a  rage,  and  I 
am  troubled  about  her." 

"  Is  she  the  Italian  you  spoke  of,  Arthur  ?  "  in- 
terrupted Mrs.  Fenton  in  her  soft  voice.  "  What 
is  she  like?  " 

"  Yes  ;  a  black-haired,  splendidly  shaped  girl 
with  piercing  black  eyes." 


160  THE  PAGANS. 

"  I  think  I  know  where  she  is,"  Edith  said 
quietly. 

"  You  ?  "  the  others  asked  in  one  breath. 

"  You  see,"  Mrs.  Fenton  explained,  turning 
towards  Helen,  "  I  have  made  rather  a  plunge 
into  charity  work.  Of  course  I  meant  to  do 
something,  but  I  hardly  expected  to  begin  quite 
so  soon.  But  Mr.  Candish  is  my  rector,  and  he 
came  for  me  yesterday  to  go  to  an  Italian  family 
that  cannot  speak  English  well.  The  children 
have  just  been  put  into  our  schools,  but  they  have 
not  advanced  very  far  as  yet.  Their  teacher  asked 
Mr.  Candish  to  do  something  for  them  ;  they  are 
wretchedly  poor.  I  wish  you  could  see  the  place, 
Mrs.  Greyson.  Eight  people  in  a  room  not  so 
large  as  this,  and  such  poverty  as  you  could  hardly 
imagine.  Yet  these  people  had  taken  in  another. 
The  mother  goes  about  selling  fruit,  and  she  hap- 
pened to  speak  to  this  girl  that  I  think  is  Ninitta 
in  her  own  language  one  night.  The  girl  had 
been  wandering  about  in  the  cold,  not  knowing 
where  to  go,  and  I  suppose  the  sound  of  her  own 
tongue  touched  her  heart.  Poor  thing;  she  would 
not  speak  a  word  to  me.  How  strange  that  I 
should  chance  to  find  her." 

"  Thank  heaven  she  is  safe,"  was  Helen's  in- 
ward exclamation.  Aloud  she  said  :  "  But  what 
is  she  doing?  " 

"  Nothing,"  Edith  answered.  "  She  seems  to 
have  had  a  little  money,  so  that  she  can  pay  the 


HEART-SICK  WITH  THOUGHT.  161 

family  something,  and  she  has  helped  to  take  care 
of  the  children.  They  are  Catholics,  naturally, 
and  not  in  Mr.  Candish's  parish ;  but  they  do  not 
seem  to  have  much  religion  of  any  kind,  and  keep 
clear  of  the  priest  for  some  reason." 

"  My  wife  will  know  more  of  the  North  End  in 
a  month,"  Arthur  observed  with  an  effort  at  good 
humor  which  did  not  wholly  conceal  from  Helen 
a  trace  of  annoyance,  "  than  I  should  in  six  years. 
I  wonder  she  can  bear  to  go  into  such  dirty 
places.  Of  course  philanthropy  is  all  very  well, 
but  I'd  rather  take  it  after  it  has  been  disin- 
fected." 

The  bitterness  in  his  tone  jarred  upon  Helen. 
She  felt  a  pang  at  his  evident  dissatisfaction  with 
his  wife's  views,  his  want  of  harmony  with  his  new 
surroundings. 

"Arthur  must  be  disciplined,"  Mrs.  Fenton 
said,  smiling  fondly.  "  If  he  once  learns  that  the 
secret  of  being  happy  lies  in  helping  others,  he'll 
be  unselfish  from  mere  selfishness,  if  from  nothing 
else." 

"Happy!"  Helen  exclaimed  involuntarily. 
"  Does  one  ever  expect  to  be  happy  nowadays  ? 
Happiness  went  out  of  fashion  with  our  grand- 
mothers' bonnets." 

"  In  this  world,"  Edith  answered,  without  any 
trace  in  her  voice  of  the  reproof  which  Helen 
half  expected,  "  perhaps  you  are  right.  The  age 
is  too  restless  and  skeptical  for  happiness  here ; 


1 62  THE  PAGANS. 

but  that  makes  me  long  the  more  for  it  here- 
after." 

"  But  even  in  a  future  life,"  returned  Helen,  "  I 
can  hardly  expect  to  be  happy,  since  I  shall  still 
be  myself." 

"  Happiness,"  was  Mrs.  Fenton's  reply,  "  is  a 
question  of  harmony  with  surroundings,  is  it  not  ? 
And  your  surroundings  in  the  other  life  may  be 
such  that  you  cannot  but  be  happy." 

"  No  more  theology,  please,"  interposed  Arthur. 
"You  forget,  Edith,  that  I  have  been  to  church 
to-day,  and  too  much  piety  at  once  might  impair 
my  spiritual  digestion  forever." 

A  perception  that  the  flippancy  of  his  tone 
shocked  his  wife,  made  Helen  turn  the  conversa- 
tion again  to  Ninitta,  arranging  to  go  with 
Mrs.  Fenton  in  the  morning  to  find  the  missing 
girl. 

They  fell  into  silence  after  this,  the  twilight 
deepening  until  only  the  glow  of  the  fire  lighted 
the  room.  Edith  went  to  the  piano  and  played 
a  bit  of  Mozart,  wandering  off  then  into  the  hymn- 
tunes  which  she  loved  and  which  were  familiar  in 
all  orthodox  homes  of  the  last  generation  :  plain- 
tive Olmutz  and  stately  Geneva,  aspiring  Amster- 
dam and  resonant  St.  Martin  s,  placid  Boylston 
and  grand  Hamburg,  Nuremburg,  Benevento, 
Turner  and  Old  Hundred ;  the  tunes  of  our  fath- 
ers, the  melodies  which  embody  the  spirit  of  the 
old  time  New  England  Sabbath,  a  day  heavy,  con- 


HEART-SICK  WITH  THOUGHT.  163 

strained  and  narrow,  it  may  be ;  but,  too,  a  day 
calm,  unworldly  and  pure. 

Arthur's  cigar  was  finished,  and  he  had  fallen 
into  a  deep  reverie,  looking  into  the  coals.  He 
recalled  his  conversations  with  Helen  before 
his  marriage.  He  wondered  whether  his  acqui- 
escence in  the  limitations  of  his  present  condition, 
his  yielding  to  his  wife's  social  and  religious  views, 
was  an  advance  or  a  deterioration.  These  pious 
tunes  jarred  upon  his  mood,  and  he  was  glad  when 
his  wife  left  the  instrument.  His  Bohemian  in- 
stinct stirred  within  him,  and  taunted  the  ease- 
loving  quality  of  his  nature  which  put  him  in  sub- 
jection to  that  which  he  believed  no  more  now 
than  in  the  days  when  he  was  the  most  sharp- 
spoken  of  the  Pagans.  A  wave  of  disgust  and 
self-loathing  swept  over  him.  He  turned  abruptly 
in  the  dusk  toward  Helen. 

"  Sing  to  us,"  he  said.  "  Edith  has  never  heard 
you." 

But  Helen  had  been  moved  by  the  melodies, 
which  came  to  her  as  an  echo  from  her  childhood. 
She  understood  the  half-peremptory  accent  in 
Arthur's  voice  to  which  she  had  so  often  yielded, 
but  to  which  she  would  not  now  submit. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  How  can  you  ask  me. 
My  barbaric  chant  would  be  wholly  out  of  keep- 
ing here.  Some  other  time  I  shall  be  glad  to 
sing  for  Mrs.  Fenton ;  now  I  must  go  home." 


XXIV. 

IN  PLACE  AND  IN  ACCOUNT  NOTHING. 

I.  Henry  IV. ;  v. — I. 

VTOTWITHSTANDING  her  previous  visit,  Mrs. 
1  *  Fenton  found  it  no  easy  matter  to  guide 
Helen  to  the  place  where  Ninitta  had  taken 
refuge. 

The  poorer  classes  of  foreigners  in  any  city  are 
led  by  similarity  of  language  and  occupations  to 
gather  into  neighborhoods  according  to  their  na- 
tionality, and  the  Italians  are  especially  clannish. 
The  fruit-venders  and  organ-grinders  form  separate 
colonies,  each  distinguished  by  the  peculiarities 
incident  to  the  calling  of  its  inhabitants,  the 
crooked  courts  in  the  fruit-sellers'  neighborhood 
being  chiefly  marked  to  outward  observance  by 
the  number  of  two-wheeled  hand-carts  which,  out 
of  business  hours,  are  crowded  together  there. 

Ninitta  was  found  in  a  room  tolerably  clean  for 
that  portion  of  the  city,  the  old  fruit  woman  who 
was  its  mistress  having  retained  more  of  the  tidi- 
ness of  thrifty  peasant  ancestors  than  most  of  her 
class.  One  room  was  made  to  accommodate  the 
mother  and  seven  children,  and  during  the  ab- 
sence of  the  former  from  home  the  premises  were 


THE  PAGANS.  165 

left  in  charge  of  a  girl  just  entering  her  teens,  who, 
when  Helen  and  Edith  reached  the  place,  was  en- 
gaged in  preparing  the  family  dinner  of  maccaroni. 
The  younger  members  of  the  family  had  just  re- 
turned from  school,  and  were  noisily  clamoring 
for  their  share,  and  all  together  relating  the  inci- 
dents of  the  day. 

Upon  a  bed  in  one  corner  lay  the  object  of  their 
search,  her  face  flushed,  her  hair  disordered,  her 
eyes  wild  and  vacant.  To  all  appearances  she  was 
in  a  high  fever,  and  she  took  no  heed  of  Edith, 
who  approached  the  bed  and  spoke  to  her.  At 
the  sound  of  Mrs.  Greyson's  voice,  however,  the 
sick  girl  gave  a  cry  and  raised  herself  into  a  sitting 
posture. 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  exclaimed  in  Italian,  excitedly, 
"  I  will  not !  I  will  not !  " 

Helen  drew  off  her  gloves  and  sat  down  upon 
the  dingy  bed  beside  Ninitta,  regarding  her  with 
pitying  eyes. 

"  You  shall  not,"  she  answered,  in  the  girl's  own 
language.  "  You  need  do  nothing  but  what  you 
choose." 

The  soft  tone  seemed  to  calm  Ninitta.  She  al- 
lowed Helen  to  arrange  the  soiled  and  crumpled 
pillows,  and  yielded  when  her  self-constituted 
nurse  wished  her  to  lie  down  again.  The  latter 
procured  a  bowl  of  water,  and  with  her  handker- 
chief bathed  the  sick  girl's  face,  soothing  her  with 
womanly  touches  which  waked  in  Edith  a  new 


1 66     IN  PLACE  AND  IN  ACCOUNT  NOTHING. 

feeling  of  sympathy  and  tenderness.  Mrs.  Grey- 
son's  white  fingers,  contrasting  strongly  with  the 
Italian's  clear  dark  skin,  smoothed  the  tangled 
hair  from  the  hot  forehead,  and  all  the  while  her 
rich,  pure  voice  murmured  comforting  words,  of 
little  meaning  in  themselves,  perhaps,  but  sweet 
with  the  sympathy  and  womanhood  which  spoke 
through  them. 

Edith  meanwhile  was  not  idle.  She  applied 
herself  to  hushing  the  boisterous  children,  and  to 
bringing  something  like  quiet. out  of  the  tumult 
of  the  crowded  room.  She  assisted  the  girl  with 
her  maccaroni,  gravely  listening  to  the  principles 
which  governed  its  equitable  distribution,  with 
her  own  hands  giving  the  grimy  little  children  the 
share  belonging  to  each.  An  air  of  comfort 
seemed  to  come  over  the  frowsy  room  after  Edith 
had  quietly  set  a  chair  straight  here,  picked  up 
something  from  the  floor  there,  and  arranged  the 
ragged  shade  at  the  window.  Even  the  little 
Italians,  half  barbarians  as  they  were,  felt  the 
change,  and  were  more  subdued. 

Ninitta,  too,  was  calmed  and  soothed,  and,  with 
Helen's  cool  hand  upon  her  hot  brow,  she  sank 
presently  into  a  drowse. 

"  Mrs.  Fenton,"  Helen  whispered,  fanning  her 
sleeping  patient,  "  Ninitta  cannot  remain  here.  I 
must  take  her  home  with  me.  I  think  she  had 
better  run  the  risk  of  being  moved  than  to  be  ill 
in  this  crowded  room." 


THE  PAGANS.  1 07 

"But,"  remonstrated   Edith,  somewhat  aghast 
at   this   summary  procedure,  "you  do   not  even 
know  what  is  the  matter  with  her." 
I     "No,"    Helen   returned   lightly,    "but    I    shall 
probably  discover." 

"  Not  by  finding  it  something  contagious,  I 
hope,"  her  friend  said,  laying  her  hand  upon  Mrs. 
Greyson's  forehead  with  a  slight,  caressing  touch. 

"  Can  you  get  me  a  hack  ?  "  Helen  asked  of  the 
girl  who  kept  the  house. 

But  the  girl  had  no  idea  how  to  obtain  one  of 
those  vehicles,  which  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
see  driving  about  with  a  certain  awe,  but  without 
the  hope  of  ever  being  able  to  do  more  than  ad- 
mire them  from  a  distance,  unless,  indeed,  she 
should  have  the  great  good  fortune  of  going  to  a 
funeral,  when  perhaps  she  might  even  ride  in 
one,  as  did  little  Sally  McMann  of  the  next 
court,  when  her  mother  died.  Mrs.  Fenton  there- 
fore went  herself  for  the  carriage,  finding  remon- 
strance in  vain  to  change  her  companion's 
decision. 

During  her  absence  Ninitta  awakened,  and, 
while  seeming  more  rational,  was  less  quiet  than 
before.  She  repulsed  her  visitor  with  angry  looks 
and  muttered  defiance.  Knowing  perfectly  well 
the  cause  of  the  girl's  agitation,  Helen  knew,  also, 
that  it  was  best  to  go  directly  to  the  root  of  the 
matter,  and  she  did  so  unshrinkingly. 
.  "  You  are  wrong,"  she  said  in  Ninitta's  ear.  "  It 


1 68      IN  PL  A  CE  AND  IN  A  CCO  UNT  NO  THING. 

is  you  he  loves.  You  are  to  go  home  with  me  be- 
cause he  wishes  it." 

At  first  the  sick  girl  seemed  to  gather  no  mean- 
ing from  these  words,  but  as  Helen  repeated  the 
assurance  again  and  again,  in  different  phrases  and 
with  Herman's  name,  she  became  passive,  as  if  she 
at  least  caught  the  spirit  if  not  the  actual  signifi- 
cance. 

Mrs.  Fenton  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  a 
carriage,  and  by  the  time  she  returned  Ninitta  had 
yielded  herself  submissively  to  Helen's  guidance. 

Mrs.  Greyson  saw  that  her  charge  was  carefully 
protected  against  the  cold,  a  matter  which  the 
mildness  of  the  day  rendered  easy,  and,  supported 
by  the  two  ladies,  the  model  was  able  to  walk  down 
stairs  to  the  carriage. 

During  the  drive  homeward  Helen  lay  back 
thinking  hotly,  and  flushed  with  excitement. 
Ninitta  sank  into  a  doze,  and  Mrs.  Fenton  sat 
looking  at  her  friend  with  the  air  of  one  who  has 
discovered  in  an  acquaintance  characteristics  before 
wholly  unsuspected.  She  hesitated  a  little,  and 
then,  mastering  her  shyness,  she  bent  forward  and 
kissed  Helen's  hand. 

The  other  submitted  in  silence.  Indeed,  the 
exaltation  of  her  mood  seemed  to  lift  her  above 
her  surroundings  so  that  she  felt  a  strange  re- 
moteness from  her  companion.  Yet  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  vague  twinge  of  annoyance  at  Edith's 
act,  although  she  could  neither  have  excused  nor 


IN  PL  A  CE  A  ND  IN  A  CCO  UN  T  NO  THING,      169 

defined  the  feeling.  Mrs.  Fenton  not  infrequently 
aroused  in  her  a  curious  mingling  of  attraction 
and  repulsion  ;  and  it  was  under  the  influence  of 
the  latter  that  she  answered  brusquely  her  friend's 
next  remark. 

"  How  did  you  quiet  Ninitta?"  Edith  asked. 

"  By  telling  her  lies,"  returned  Helen  wearily 
and  laconically. 

"What!" 

"  She  is  in  no  condition  to  be  dealt  with  ration- 
ally," continued  Mrs.  Greyson,  in  a  tone  explana- 
tory, but  in  no  way  defensive,  "  so  I  said  what- 
ever would  soothe  her." 

Edith  sat  in  silent  dismay.  Apparently  the 
woman  before  her,  by  whose  generous  self-forget- 
fulness  she  had  been  touched,  was  perfectly  un- 
troubled by  the  idea  of  speaking  a  falsehood,  a 
state  of  mind  so  utterly  beyond  Edith's  experience 
as  to  be  incomprehensible  to  her.  She  could  not 
bring  herself  to  remonstrate,  but  it  pained  her  that 
such  philanthropy  should  be  stained  by  what  she 
considered  so  wrong. 

Mrs.  Fenton  was  perhaps  equally  mistaken  in 
her  opinion  of  Helen's  regard  for  truth  and  of  her 
philanthropy.  Mrs.  Greyson  had  a  deep  repug- 
nance to  falsehood,  and  Arthur  Fenton  had  often 
good-humoredly  jeered  at  what  he  called  her  Pu- 
ritanic scrupulousness  in  this  respect.  On  an  oc- 
casion such  as  at  present,  however,  the  use  of  an 
untruth  would  cause  her  not  even  a  second  thought, 


170  THE  PAGANS. 

her  reason  so  strongly  supporting  her  course  as 
even  to  overcome  her  instincts  ;  a  fact  which  a 
moralist  might  deplore  but  which  still  remains  a 
fact. 

Her  philanthropy,  upon  the  other  hand, 
although  seeming  to  Edith  so  disinterested, 
was  largely  instigated  by  a  desire  to  aid 
Grant  Herman.  Just  what  she  wished  or  ex- 
pected him  to  do,  she  could  not  have  told,  her 
actions  being  no  more  regulated  by  strict  logic  than 
those  of  most  women  ;  but  she  felt  that  it  was  the 
office  of  friendship  to  see,  if  possible,  that  no 
harm  came  to  the  Italian  through  the  jealousy 
which  both  herself  and  Herman  knew  to  be  but 
too  well  founded.  She  determined  to  take 
Ninitta  home  and  do  for  her  all  that  was  neces- 
sary, in  order  that  the  sculptor  be  spared  the  re- 
morse which  would  pursue  him  if  harm  came  to 
his  old  betrothed.  She  was  not  without  a  secret 
feeling,  moreover,  scarcely  acknowledged  to  her- 
self, that  she  owed  some  reparation  to  the  girl 
whose  lover's  heart  she  had  won,  no  matter  how 
undesignedly. 

Reaching  home,  she  got  Ninitta  to  bed  and  sent 
for  Dr.  Ashton.  Then  she  dispatched  a  note  to 
Grant  Herman,  saying : 

"  Ninitta  is  with  me ;  give  yourself  no  uneasi- 
ness." 


XXV. 

THIS  DEED    UNSHAPES   ME. 

Measure   for  Measure;  iv. — 4. 

ATINITTA'S  illness  proved  after  all  very  slight. 
1M  So  slight,  indeed,  that  Dr.  Ashton,  calling  in  on 
his  way  to  dine  with  the  Fentons  Thursday  evening, 
found  her  gone.  She  had  insisted  upon  returning 
to  her  attic,  although  Helen  had  not  allowed  her 
to  depart  without  promising  not  to  abscond 
a  second  time. 

Ninitta  was  grateful  to  Mrs.  Greyson  with  all 
the  ardor  of  her  passionate  southern  heart.  She 
did  not,  it  is  true,  understand  the  relations  be- 
tween Herman  and  Helen,  but  even  her  jealousy 
was  lost  in  the  gratitude  she  felt  for  the  beautiful 
woman  who  had  cared  for  her,  and  it  is  not  un- 
likely saved  her  from  a  dangerous  illness.  It  did 
not  seem  possible  to  the  undisciplined  Italian, 
versed  only  in  crude,  simple  emotions,  that  a 
woman  who  was  her  rival  could  treat  her  with  ten- 
derness. She  accepted  Helen's  kindness  as  indis- 
putable proof  that  the  latter  did  not  love  the 
sculptor,  a  conclusion  which  the  premises  scarcely 
warranted.  She  volunteered  to  pose  again,  and 
Mrs.  Greyson,  thinking  it  well  to  keep  the  girl 


172  THE  PAGANS. 

under  her  influence,  and  desiring  a  return  to  at 
least  the  semblance  of  the  peaceful  existence  pre- 
ceding the  stormy  episode  just  ended,  eagerly  ac- 
cepted this  offer,  only  stipulating  that  the  model 
should  undertake  nothing  until  she  was  really  well 
able. 

"  I  shall  come  back  to  supper,"  Dr.  Ashton  said, 
as  he  left  his  wife.  "  I  have  half  a  mind  not  to  go 
to  Fenton's ;  only  it  amuses  me  to  watch  the  fel- 
low's degeneration." 

"  It  never  amuses  me  to  watch  any  degradation," 
she  returned  gravely.  "  How  do  you  know  he  is 
degenerating?  If  you  mean  by  following  his  wife, 
why,  they  may  be  right  after  all,  and  what  we  call 
superstition  the  veriest  truth." 

"  Of  course,"  answered  he.  "  I  never  pretended 
to  administer  the  exclusive  mysteries  of  truth  ; 
but  it  is  always  a  degradation  to  yield  to  personal 
influence  at  the  expense  of  conviction.  Arthur  is 
as  much  of  a  heathen  to-day  as  he  ever  was,  only 
he  is  too  fond  of  comfort  to  have  the  courage  of 
his  opinions." 

Helen  sighed. 

"  Truth  to  me,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "  is  what- 
ever one  sincerely  believes  ;  I  cannot  conceive  of 
any  other  standard.  One  man's  truth  is  often 
another's  falsehood." 

"  You  are  as  dull  as  a  preface  to-night,  Helen ; 
what  carking  care  is  gnawing  at  your  vitals?  " 

"  Nothing  in  particular.     A  certain  melancholy 


THIS  DEED  UN  SHAPES  ME.  173 

is  befitting  a  widow,  you  know,  and  that's  what 
I  am  supposed  to  be." 

"  On  the  contrary  there  is  a  certain  vivacity 
about  the  word  widow  to  my  mind." 

"  Your  experience  has  been  wider  than  mine.  I 
am  aware  that  I  am  too  much  given  to  vast  moral 
reflections,  but  you  provoke  them." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  provoke  you,"  he  said  gayly. 
"  Forgive  me  before  supper  time  ;  who  knows 
what  rich  experiences  I  may  have  between  now 
and  then.  Good-by." 

As  he  walked  toward  his  appointment,  could 
Dr.  Ashton's  vision  have  reached  to  the  house 
whither  he  was  going,  he  would  have  seen  Arthur 
Fenton  and  his  wife  sitting  together  before  an 
open  fire  awaiting  their  guest.  The  artist  was 
showing  Edith  a  portfolio  of  sketches  by  foreign 
painters,  which  he  had  brought  from  his  studio. 

"  What  a  strange  uncanny  thing  this  is,"  he 
remarked,  holding  one  up.  "  It  is  just  like  Fron- 
tier ;  I  never  saw  any  thing  more  characteristic.  I 
wonder  you  got  so  few  of  his  tricks,  Edith,  while 
you  studied  with  him." 

"  He  always  repelled  me.  I  was  afraid  of  him. 
Where  did  you  get  this  sketch  ?  " 

"  Dr.  Ashton  gave  it  to  me." 

"  Dr.  Ashton  !  " 

"  Yes  ;  when  he  was  in  Paris,  both  he  and  his 
wife  were  intimate  with  Frontier.  Or  at  least 
Will  was." 


174  -   THE  PAGANS. 

"Oh,  Arthur!" 

She  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  her  always  pale 
face  assuming  a  new  pallor.  Laying  her  hand 
upon  her  husband's,  she  asked  in  a  quick,  excited 
manner : 

"  Do  you  know  how  Frontier  died  ?  " 

"  I  know  he  died  suddenly  ;  now  you  speak  of 
it,  I  have  an  idea  it  was  a  case  of  felo  de  se.  You 
know  I  was  in  Munich  at  the  time." 

"  Arthur,"  Edith  said  earnestly,  "  I  have  never 
told  even  you  ;  but  I  saw  Frontier  die.  I  had  a 
pass-key  to  his  studio,  and  his  private  rooms  were 
just  behind  it.  That  night  I  went  in  on  my  way 
from  dinner — Uncle  Peter  and  I  had  been  din- 
ing together,  and  I  left  him  at  the  door  with  the 
carriage — after  a  study  I'd  forgotten.  We  were 
going  to  Rome  the  next  morning,  and  I  didn't 
want  to  leave  it.  The  picture  was  at  the  further 
end  of  the  studio,  and  as  I  went  down  the  room  I 
heard  voices  and  saw  that  Frontier's  door  was 
open.  He  sat  at  a  table  with  a  tiny  wine-glass  in 
his  hand.  A  man  who  stood  back  to  me  said,  just 
as  I  came  within  hearing :  *  It  is  none  of  my 
affair,  and  I  shall  not  interfere ;  but  you'll  allow 
me  to  advise  you  not  to  be  rash.'  I  could  not 
hear  Frontier's  answer,  partly  because  I  paid  no 
attention,  of  course  never  suspecting  the  truth. 
But  as  I  went  towards  my  easel,  Frontier,  hearing 
the  noise,  I  suppose,  and  afraid  of  being  inter- 
rupted, caught  up  the  glass  and  drank  what  was  in 


THIS  DEED   UN  SHAPES  ME.  175 

it.  The  other  man  sprang  forward  just  in  time  to 
catch  him  as  he  fell  back,  and  it  suddenly  came 
over  me  that  he  was  taking  poison.  I  cried  out 
and  ran  into  the  room,  but  it  seemed  only  an  in- 
stant before  it  was  all  over.  Oh,  it  was  terrible, 
Arthur,  terrible  ! " 

She  covered  her  agitated  face  with  her  hands, 
as  if  to  shut  out  the  vision  which  rose  before 
her.  Her  husband  sat  in  silent  astonishment,  a 
conviction  growing  in  his  mind  of  whom  the 
other  witness  of  Frontier's  death  must  have  been. 

"Arthur,"  Edith  broke  out  suddenly,  "that 
man  was  no  better  than  a  murderer.  He  let 
Frontier  kill  himself.  When  I  cried  out,  '  Oh, 
why  didn't  you  stop  him  ! '  he  said  as  coolly  as  if 
I  had  asked  the  most  trivial  question,  '  Why 
should  I  ?  What  right  had  I  to  interfere  ? '  It 
was  terrible  !  He  seemed  to  me  a  perfect  fiend  ! " 

"  It  was — who  was  it  ?  "  demanded  her  husband, 
a  name  almost  escaping  him  in  his  excitement. 

"  It  was  Dr.  Ashton  ;  the  man  who  is  com- 
ing to  sit  down  at  your  table  to-night.  Arthur, 
I  cannot  meet  him  !  I  knew  when  he  came  to 
our  reception  that  I  had  seen  him  before,  but  I 
could  not  tell  where.  There  is  his  ring  now. 
Let  me  get  by  you  ! " 

"  But  where  are  you  going  ?  "  Fenton  asked  in 
amazement. 

"  To  my  room.  Any  where  to  get  out  of  his 
way." 


176  THE  PAGANS. 

"  But  what  shall  I  tell  him  ?  " 

"  The  truth  ;  that  I  will  not  sit  down  to  eat 
with  a  murderer." 

She  vanished  from  the  room,  leaving  her  hus- 
band alone.  Dr.  Ashton's  step  was  already  upon 
the  stair,  and  however  keenly  Mrs.  Fenton  might 
feel  the  wickedness  of  the  Doctor  in  not  prevent- 
ing Frontier's  self-destruction,  the  action  was  too 
strictly  in  accord  with  Arthur's  own  views  to  allow 
of  his  condemning  it.  His  friend  found  him  in  a 
state  of  confusion  which  instantly  connected  itself 
in  the  guest's  mind  with  the  non-appearance  of 
Edith,  an  impression  which  was  strengthened  by 
the  lameness  of  the  excuses  tendered  for  her  ab- 
sence. Dr.  Ashton  not  unnaturally  concluded 
that  he  had  just  escaped  stumbling  upon  a  family 
quarrel.  He  accepted  whatever  his  host  chose  to 
say,  and  the  two  proceeded  rather  gloomily  to 
dinner. 

In  Arthur's  mind  there  sprang  an  irritation 
against  both  his  wife  and  his  friend.  His  instincts 
were  all  protective,  that  term  including  comfort  as 
well  as  self-preservation.  He  was  intensely  an- 
noyed at  his  wife's  attitude,  and  began  to  vent  his 
spleen  in  cynical  speeches,  which  since  his  mar- 
riage had  been  rare  with  him. 

"  Christian  grace,"  he  declared,  "  is  exactly  like 
milk ;  excellent  and  nourishing  while  it  is  fresh, 
but  hard  to  get  pure,  and  even  then  sure  to  sour." 

"  Say  something  more  original  if  you  are  cross, 


THIS  DEED   UN  SHAPES  ME.  177 

Arthur,"  observed  his  friend  good  humoredly. 
"  What  is  the  matter?  Is  it  a  new  rug  or  a  Japa- 
nese bronze  you  are  dying  for?" 

"  Hang  rugs  and  bronzes,"  retorted  Arthur, 
with  a  vicious  determination  to  be  ill-natured. 
"  If  I  can  get  the  necessities  of  life,  I  am  lucky." 

"  Nonsense,"  was  the  reply.  "  It  isn't  that. 
The  lack  of  the  necessities  of  life  makes  a  man 
sad ;  it  is  the  lack  of  luxuries  that  makes  him 
cynical." 

Dr.  Ashton  was  perfectly  right  in  his  inward 
comment  that  Fenton  was  secretly  regretting  his 
marriage.  This  was  the  thought  that  filled  Ar- 
thur's mind.  It  was  true  he  had  had  no  absolute 
disagreement  with  his  wife,  although  it  is  not  im- 
possible that  it  might  have  come  to  this,  had  a 
delay  in  the  guest's  arrival  allowed  time.  But  it 
filled  the  husband  with  an  unreasoning  rage  that 
Edith  presumed  to  establish  so  strict  a  code  of 
morals.  He  felt  that  her  position  as  his  wife  de- 
manded more  conformity  to  his  standards.  Why 
need  she  trouble  herself  about  that  which  did 
not  concern  her,  and  sit  in  such  lofty  judgment 
upon  the  morals  of  her  neighbors  ?  Did  she  pro- 
pose keeping  Dr,  Ashton's  conscience  as  well  as 
her  own— and  his?  Certainly  those  whom  the 
husband  found  worthy  his  friendship  it  ill  became 
the  wife  to  stigmatize  and  avoid.  He  sat  moodily 
tearing  his  fish  in  pieces  instead  of  eating ;  for  the 
moment  wholly  forgetting  his  duty  as  host. 


1 78  THE  PAGANS. 

"  If  you'll  pardon  my  mentioning  it,"  Dr.  Ash- 
ton  said  at  length,  "  you  are  about  as  cheerful  com- 
pany as  a  death's  head.  You  are  so  melancholy 
that  I  am  tempted  to  fling  in  your  face  one  of  my 
old  epigrams ;  that  love  is  a  gay  young  bachelor 
who  can  never  be  persuaded  to  marry  and  settle 
down." 

The  other  laughed  and  made  an  effort  to  shake 
off  his  gloom  ;  but  with  so  little  success  that  his 
guest  resolved  to  escape  at  the  earliest  moment 
possible.  Something  in  Fenton's  forced  talk, 
however,  attracted  Dr.  Ashton's  attention. 

"  My  wife  was  a  pupil  of  Frontier." 

The  simple  phrase,  which  had  escaped  Arthur's 
lips  because  it  had  been  in  his  mind  not  to  allude 
to  this  fact,  might  have  gone  unnoticed  had  not 
the  speaker  himself  so  strongly  felt  the  shock  of 
disclosure  as  to  show  sudden  confusion.  The 
whole  matter  was  at  once  clear  to  Dr.  Ashton, 
who  having  recognized  Edith  at  the  reception, 
had  been  prepared  for  identification  in  his  own 
turn. 

"  So  that,"  he  observed  calmly,  "  is  the  reason 
Mrs.  Fenton  does  not  dine  with  us  to-night.  I 
knew  she  was  sure  to  recognize  me  sooner  or  later  ; 
but  as  I  had  no  motive  for  concealing  this  matter, 
on  the  other  hand  I  had  no  reason  for  recalling  so 
unpleasant  a  circumstance  to  her  mind." 

There  was  a  pause  of  a  moment,  and  then  the 
Doctor  continued : 


THIS  DEED  UN  SHAPES  ME.  179 

"  I  think  Frontier  was  rather  foolish.  I  told  him 
so.  A  charming  little  Hungarian  girl  of  whom 
he  was  fond,  had  left  him  to  follow  the  for- 
tunes of  a  Polish  Count,  or  something  of  the 
sort.  I  do  not  see  why  a  man  should  kill  himself 
for  so  trifling  a  thing  as  a  woman  ;  but  if  he  chose 
to,  I  am  not  one  of  those  officious  persons  who 
feel  justified  in  interfering  with  any  private  act 
they  don't  happen  to  approve.  I  certainly  should 
resent  such  impertinent  intrusion  into  my  own 
affairs." 

"And  I,"  assented  Arthur  doggedly;  "but  my 
wife " 

"  Certainly  ;  I  understand.  Mrs.  Fenton  says  hard 
things  of  me  because  I  would  not  rob  poor  Fron- 
tier of  what  little  comfort  he  could  get  from  dying. 
Very  well ;  I  will  not  offend  her  by  my  presence. 
Only  she  is  setting  herself  a  hard  task  in  attempt- 
ing to  treat  people  according  to  their  conservatism. 
In  these  days  the  sheep  and  goats  have  come  to 
be  so  much  alike  in  appearance,  that  I  scarcely 
see  how  a  mere  mortal  is  to  distinguish  between 
them.  My  own  case  I  settle  for  her  by  avoiding 
her  house." 

"  But  this  is  my  house,"  protested  Arthur,  in- 
tensely chagrined. 

"  No,"  his  guest  replied,  still  smiling  and  moving 
toward  the  door.  "  It  is  the  nest  you  have  built 
for  your  love  and  your — regeneration !  Good 
night." 


XXVI. 

THERE   BEGINS   CONFUSION. 

I  Henry  VI.  ;  iv. — I. 

A  LONE  in  her  own  room,  Edith  relieved  herover- 
f\  wrought  feelings  by  a  burst  of  tears,  brief,  in- 
deed, but  bitter.  Like  her  husband,  she  felt  that 
this  incident,  although  not  assuming  the  guise  of  a 
quarrel,  was  an  opening  wedge  in  the  unity  of 
their  affection.  Unlike  Arthur,  however,  she 
thought  of  it  with  self-reproach  and  misgiving. 
She  did  not  for  an  instant  consider  the  possibility 
of  having  taken  a  different  position  in  regard  to 
Dr.  Ashton,  yet  in  a  womanly,  illogical  way,  she 
felt  that  she  should  have  learned  her  husband's 
wishes  before  so  vehemently  declaring  her  own 
views. 

She  heard  the  artist  and  his  guest  go  in  to  din- 
ner, and  the  thought  flashed  upon  her  that  this 
was  the  first  time  her  husband  had  dined  without 
her  since  their  marriage.  She  wondered  if  he  re- 
membered it,  and,  remembering,  regretted.  She 
longed  for  companionship,  for  some  friend  into 
whose  sympathetic  ear  she  could  pour  her  story, 
from  whom  she  might  ask  advice.  She  reflected 
sadly  how  far  she  was  removed  from  her  intimate 


THERE  BEGINS  CONFUSION.  181 

friends.  Of  her  new  acquaintances  many  had 
been  most  kind  to  her,  but  towards  none  of  them, 
not  even  to  her  relatives,  had  she  been  so  strongly 
drawn  as  to  wish  now  to  go  to  them  for  confidence 
and  sympathy  ;  unless,  came  a  second  thought,  it 
were  Mrs.  Greyson.  She  was  a  widow,  Edith  re- 
flected, and  had  evidently  suffered  much,  while 
the  strength  of  her  character  was  evident  from 
her  dealing  with  the  Italian  girl.  It  would  be  no 
disloyalty  to  go  to  her ;  there  had  been  no  words 
spoken  between  husband  and  wife  which  could 
not  be  told  a  friend,  and  Edith  felt  that  she  need- 
ed the  advice  of  a  woman  more  versed  in  the  in- 
tricacies of  life  than  herself. 

She  dressed  herself  for  walking,  and  slipped 
noiselessly  out  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Greyson  was  at  dinner,  and  was  naturally 
surprised  at  seeing  her  caller,  but  she  had  both  too 
much  tact  and  too  much  breeding  to  ask  expla- 
nations. 

"  I  do  hope  you  have  not  dined,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  so  much  alone  that  it  is  a  perfect  delight  to 
me  to  have  company.  My  dinner  is  a  little  like  a 
picnic,  but  if  you  will  only  consider  how  great  a 
favor  you  are  doing  me  by  sharing  it,  the  con- 
sciousness of  philanthropy  ought  to  make  it  pala- 
table." 

Neither  lady  mentioned  Arthur,  although  his 
name  was  uppermost  in  the  thoughts  of  both. 
They  sat  down  together  in  Helen's  tiny  dining- 


1 82  THE  PAGANS. 

room,  and  served  by  her  only  maid,  had  a  charm- 
ing meal.  The  hostess  exerted  herself  to  enter- 
tain her  guest,  wisely  judging  that  what  Edith 
said  in  calmness  she  would  be  far  less  likely  to  re- 
gret than  words  uttered  in  the  unguarded  moments 
of  her  excitement.  She  told  Mrs.  Fenton  stories  of 
her  studio  life  both  in  Boston  and  abroad,  she  led 
Edith  on  to  speak  of  her  own  travels  and  expe- 
riences, until  the  latter  almost  forgot  that  she  was 
dining  in  one  house  and  her  husband  in  another. 
It  was  not  until  the  coffee  was  reached,  coffee 
made  as  only  Helen  could  make  it,  that  the  sub- 
ject of  the  visit  was  really  broached. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Fenton?"  Helen  asked  deliberate- 
ly, believing  the  time  had  come  for  such  a  ques- 
tion. 

The  face  of  the  other  fell.  She  experienced  a 
pang  at  the  consciousness  of  having  been  gay  and 
happy,  forgetful  of  her  husband  and  her  trouble. 

"  He  is  well,"  she  answered  falteringly. 

"  Why  did  you  not  bring  him  with  you  ?  "  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Greyson  lightly,  yet  with  a  secret  de- 
termination to  know  the  cause  of  her  guest's 
evident  disturbance. 

"  He  did  not  know  I  was  coming,"  Edith  re- 
sponded in  a  low  voice.  "  That  is  what  I  came  to 
talk  about.  I  thought  you  might  understand  ; 
but  it  involves  a  third  person,  and  perhaps  I  ought 
not  to  tell  you.  I  am  sure,  though,"  she  went  on, 
gaining  confidence  now  that  the  ice  was  broken, 


THERE  BEGINS  CONFUSION1.  183 

"  that  I  can  trust  you.  A  friend  of  Arthur's  came 
to  dine  to-night,  and  just  as  the  door-bell  rang,  I 
found  him  to  be  the  man  I  once  saw  commit  mur- 
der in  Paris." 

"Murder!"  exclaimed  Helen,  turning  white. 
"  Commit  murder?  " 

"  Consent  to  it,"  corrected  Edith,  unconsciously 
a  little  pleased  to  have  produced  so  great  an  effect 
upon  her  usually  self-possessed  friend.  "  He  look- 
ed on  while  Frontier  took  poison,  without  trying  to 
prevent  him." 

"But  that,"  Mrs.  Greyson  said  slowly,  "is  hard- 
ly the  same  thing  as  murder." 

"  It  is  quite  as  bad,"  Edith  protested  earnestly. 
"  It  makes  me  shudder  to  think  of  his  dining  alone 
with  Arthur  at  this  moment.  Who  knows  what 
might  happen ! " 

"  Nothing  tragic,  I  think,"  Helen  replied  smil- 
ing. "  He  does  not  go  about  with  pistols  in  his 
belt,  I  suppose.'/' 

"  It  is  awful  to  me,"  Edith  continued,  with  in- 
creasing excitement,  too  much  stirred  to  notice 
the  sarcasm.  "  I  told  Arthur  I  could  not  sit  down 
with  a  murderer,  and  just  at  that  moment  we 
heard  his  step,  and  I  ran  away  up  stairs ;  and  then 
I  felt  dreadfully,  and  I  came  to  you." 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  confidence.  But  what 
do  you  mean  to  do  ?  What  will  Arthur  tell  him  ?" 

"  The  truth,  I  hope." 

"  He  is  scarcely  likely  to  say  to  the  guest  he  has 


1 84  THE  PAGANS. 

himself  invited  that  you  think  him  a  murderer," 
answered  her  friend,  smiling  again,  "  and  I  am 
not  sure  that  he  would  even  look  at  this  quite  so 
severely  as  you  do." 

"  How  else  can  he  look  at  it  ?  "  demanded  Edith. 
"  How  else  can  any  one  look  at  it  ?  Isn't  it  mur- 
der to  take  human  life,  and  if  one  does  not  pre- 
vent suicide  when  he  might,  isn't  it  the  same  as  if 
he  did  it  himself?" 

"We  will  not  get  into  a  discussion,"  Helen  re- 
plied gently.  "  I  feel  about  it  as  you  do  ;  though 
I  believe  very  differently.  But  I  see  perfectly  well 
how  a  man  might  be  strictly  honest  in  thinking 
that  it  was  the  privilege  of  any  human  being  to 
lay  aside  his  life  when  he  is  weary  of  it  ;  and  I  do 
not  presume  to  condemn  others  for  feeling  what  I 
only  think  I  believe." 

"  Think  you  believe  !  "  cried  the  other  in  horror. 
"  You  do  not  think  you  believe  that  murder  is 
right?" 

"  Assuredly  not ;  but  as  there  are  so  many  re- 
lated points  upon  which  we  do  not  agree,  would 
it  not  be  better  to  talk  of  this  particular  case  than 
of  general  belief?" 

"  But  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  believe  as 
you  say,"  persisted  Edith ;  "  simply  impossible. 
No  one  can  believe  that  wrong  is  right." 

"  But  each  has  his  own  standard." 

Against  this  Edith  protested,  but  Helen  return- 
ed no  answer.  She  regretted  being  involved  in 


THERE  BEGINS  CONFUSION.  185 

such  a  debate,  and  resolved  to  let  ;the  discussion  go 
no  further.  They  sat  in  silence  a  moment,  and 
then  Edith  again  spoke. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  to  do,"  she  said.  "  Of 
course  Arthur  cannot  know  that  man  any  longer. 
You  were  in  Paris  at  the  time  Frontier  died,  were 
you  not  ?  Did  you  ever  know " 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  remembering  that  she 
had  not  intended  disclosing  the  name  of  her  guest. 

"  Dr.  Ashton  ?  "  Helen  returned,  fixing  her  eyes 
upon  her  companion,  and  unconsciously  speaking 
with  a  deliberation  which  gave  especial  weight  to 
her  words.  "Yes;  I  know  him.  We  went  to 
Paris  together." 

"  Together!  Was  he  a  friend  of  your  husband? 
How  did  you  know  whom  I  meant  ?  " 

There  was  no  perceptible  pause  before  Helen 
answered  ;  but  meanwhile  she  determined  to  throw 
aside  all  concealment.  She  could  no  longer  stand 
before  Arthur  Fenton's  wife  with  the  humiliation 
of  even  a  tacit  deception  between  them.  She  felt 
a  spirit  of  defiance  rising  within  her.  Who  was 
this  woman  that  she  assumed  the  right  to  judge 
them  all  by  standards  for  whose  narrowness 
only  contempt  was  possible !  At  least  she  would 
rise  above  all  conventional  prejudices,  and  no 
longer  tacitly  ask,  as  by  silence  she  had  done,  ex- 
emption from  the  harsh  judgments  of  Mrs.  Fen- 
ton's  creed. 

Helen  was  too  womanly  not  to  shrink  from  this 


l86  THE  PAGANS. 

disclosure,  and  she  had  been  too  thoroughly  edu- 
cated in  the  faith  by  which  Edith  lived  not  to 
understand  just  how  her  life  would  appear  seen 
through  the  latter's  belief.  Disconnected  with  a 
question  relating  to  the  marriage  relation  and  by 
implication  casting  reflection  upon  her  delicacy 
and  even  purity  of  life  as  a  woman  separated  from 
her  lawful  husband,  Helen  could  have  met  with 
dispassionate  reasoning  whatever  assault  Edith 
made  upon  her.  This  point  was  too  vital,  it 
touched  too  closely  the  core  of  her  woman's  nature, 
and  although  she  retained  perfectly  her  self-con- 
trol, there  was  a  pulse  of  passion  in  her  voice 
when  she  spoke. 

"  Dr.  Ashton,"  she  said  unflinchingly,  "  is  my 
husband." 

"  What  ?  "  cried  Edith. 

"  We  have  not  found  it  convenient  to  live  to- 
gether," Helen  continued,  with  increasing  calm- 
ness, a  faint  tinge  of  contempt  creeping  into  her 
voice,  "  and  so  since  my  return  from  Europe  I 
have  taken  my  mother's  name  to  avoid  gossip. 
Dr.  Ashton  and  I  are  very  good  friends  still." 

"And  did  Mr.  Fenton  know  this  ?"  asked  the 
other,  very  pale. 

"Certainly;  although  you  understand  that  it  is 
not  a  matter  which  we  discuss  with  the  world  at 
large.  I  pass,  I  believe,  as  a  widow  ;  though  I 
have  never  done  or  said  any  thing  to  give  color 
to  that  idea." 


THERE  BEGINS  CONFUSION'.  187 

It  is  doubtful  if  Helen  fully  comprehended  the 
effect  of  these  words  upon  her  guest.  Every 
fiber  of  Edith's  being  tingled.  All  her  most 
sacred  principles  seemed  outraged.  She  in  some 
remote  way  felt,  moreover,  as  if  to  hear  without 
protest  so  lax  notions  of  the  responsibilities  of 
marriage  was  to  stain  her  womanhood  and  dim 
the  luster  of  her  modesty. 

"  How  dared  he  introduce  you  to  me  ?  "  she 
cried.  "You  are  the  wife  of  a  murderer  and  you 
defend  his  crime  ;  you  pretend  to  be  a  widow, 
you  ignore  your  marriage — 

"  Stop,"  the  hostess  said  with  dignity.  "  We 
need  not  go  over  the  ground.  Mr.  Fenton  made 
us  acquainted,  I  presume,  because  he  agrees  with 
me  in  seeing  nothing  wrong  in  my  position,  how- 
ever unconventional  it  may  be.  You  will  see  that 
if  I  had  been  ashamed  of  the  fact  I  could  easily 
have  kept  it  from  your  knowledge." 

But  Edith  made  her  no  answer.  She  was  too 
much  overwhelmed  by  the  various  emotions  which 
the  disclosure  of  the  evening  had  aroused. 

Edith  was,  from  Helen's  point  of  view,  fatally 
narrow,  it  is  true ;  but  the  latter  might  have 
reflected  that  the  limitations  of  her  friend's  vision 
were  the  faiths  of  the  Christian  world,  and  that 
her  tenacity  arose  not  from  obstinacy  but  sin- 
cerity. It  is  an  age  when  belief  and  doubt  are 
brought  face  to  face  so  sharply  that  the  shock  dis- 
turbs by  its  jar  the  most  ordinary  affairs  of  life. 


1 88  THE  PAGAN'!*. 

Edith  was  pure,  high  minded,  simple  souled,  and 
for  the  rest  she  was  honest  and  earnest.  Her 
creeds  were  vitalized  by  the  warm  fervor  with 
which  she  clung  to  them,  and  what  more  could  be 
demanded  of  her? 

She  quitted  the  dining-room,  and  soon  Helen 
heard  the  outer  door  close  behind  her.  The  night 
gathered,  and  the  lonely  woman  left  behind  sat 
long  in  sad  reverie,  until  the  door  was  again 
opened  to  admit  Dr.  Ashton. 


XXVII. 

WEIGHING  DELIGHT  AND  DOLE, 

Hamlet ;.  i. — 2* 

DR.  ASHTON  came  in  too  full  of  his  own 
interview  with  Arthur  to  notice  particularly 
if  his  wife  showed  signs  of  agitation. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  throwing  himself  into  a 
chair,  "  it  is  at  once  one  of  the  latest  and  the 
wisest  of  my  reflections  that  you  had  better  con- 
sider a  newly  married  man  as  an  entire  stranger 
and  form  his  acquaintance  quite  from  the  founda- 
tion, wholly  unbiased  by  any  notion  you  had  of 
him  as  a  bachelor." 

"His  wife,"  responded  Helen  quietly,  "has 
been  dining  with  me,  so  I  understand  something 
of  the  situation.  But  how  did  Arthur  behave?" 

"  Like  any  husband  who  does  not  care  to  quar- 
rel with  his  wife  even  when  he  disapproves  of  her. 
It  is  upon  that  principle  that  matrimonial  felicity 
depends.  Do  you  say  Mrs.  Fenton  has  been 
here  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  she  came  to  me  for  sympathy  and  I  ad- 
ministered it  by  telling  her  that  I  am  your  wife." 

"The  devil!  I  beg  your  pardon;  but,  He  *.n, 
it  was  precisely  because  I  knew  she  was  sur(  {'*<" 


1 90  THE  PAGANS. 

remember  this  Frontier  scrape  that  I  wanted  her 
not  to  know.  She  will  be  very  hard  on  you." 

"  Christianity  is  always  hard,"  returned  she ; 
"but  what  difference  does  it  make  ;  it  was  only  a 
question  of  time.  She  is  sweet  and  pure  and 
good,  Will,  but  her  religion  holds  her  in  bands 
stronger  than  steel.  I  couldn't  long  keep  step 
with  one  in  chains.  It  might  as  well  come  now  as 
any  time." 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  with  evident  interest 
not  unmixed  with  admiration. 

"  She  provokes  me  to  do  and  to  say  childish 
things,"  Helen  continued,  "just  to  shock  her.  I 
told  her  bluntly  the  other  day  that  I  had  been 
telling  a  falsehood,  and  she  had  the  impertinence 
to  look  shocked.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  did  not  go  so 
far  as  to  say  I  '  lied,'  a  word  that  hardly  holds  the 
place  in  English  that  it  did  in  the  good  days  of 
Mrs.  Opie.  She  would  have  been  reconciled  if  I 
had  said  I  told  what  I  hoped  was  true." 

"  I  should  have  told  her,"  laughed  Dr.  Ashton, 
"  that  I  only  used  truth  as  the  Egyptians  used 
straw  in  bricks,  the  smallest  possible  quantity  that 
will  hold  the  rest  together." 

"  I  cannot  see  why  Arthur  married  her,"  Helen 
said  musingly. 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  an  idle  man  will  fall  in  love 
with  any  pretty  woman  who  will  snub  him." 

"  But  Arthur  isn't  idle,  and  she  doesn't  snub 
him." 


WEIGHING  DELIGHT  AND  DOLE.  191 

"Very  well ;  he  married  her  because  he  fell  in 
love  for  no  reason  but  the  weakness  of  our  sex." 

"  Love  seems  generally  to  be  regarded  by  the 
masculine  mind  in  the  light  of  a  weakness." 

"Isn't  it?"  her  husband  returned.  "Love  is 
the  condition  of  desiring  the  impossible,  and  if 
that  is  not  a  weakness,  what  becomes  of  logic  ?  " 

"  I  am  tired  of  logic,"  she  said,  rising  abruptly. 
"  I  am  tired  of  every  thing.  Let  us  have  supper. 
I  want  a  glass  of  wine.  I  am  sure  I  tried  to  be 
kind  to  Mrs.  Fenton.  I  would  have  helped  her  if 
I  could ;  but  how  could  I  assist  her  unless  she 
chose  to  let  me,  and  that,  too,  knowing  who  I  am." 

"  I  never  knew  you  to  be  other  than  kind,"  was 
the  grave  reply,  which  brought  to  Helen's  cheek  a 
faint  flush  of  pleasure. 

The  servant  came  in  with  supper,  and  the  slender 
glasses  were  filled  with  Rhine  wine. 

"  I  could  not  help  thinking,"  Dr.  Ashton  said, 
lifting  his  glass, — "  I  drink  to  your  very  good 
health,  my  dear — I  could  not  help  thinking  of  my 
wedding  gift  to  Arthur,  that  he  asked  me  for  it,  I 
mean." 

"  I  thought  of  it,  too,  when  his  wife  told  me  the 
story.  It  is  well  she  does  not  know  that  of  you." 

"  Oh,  it  wouldn't  matter,"  he  said  carelessly. 
"  She  couldn't  feel  a  greater  horror  of  me  than  she 
does  already.  Do  you  see  the  mark  of  Cain  on 
my  forehead,  Helen?" 

"  Isn't  it  droll,"  she  returned,  with  a  smile  half 


1 92  THE  PAGANS. 

pensive,  half  humorous,  "  to  feel  ourselves  sud- 
denly tried  by  new  standards  and  found  so  want- 
ing. I  am  not  sure  but  dramatic  propriety  de- 
mands that  I  should  poison  Mrs.  Fenton.  I  have 
that  vial,  you  know." 

"  Did  you  notice  the  inscription  on  the  vial  ?  " 

"  No ;  is  there  one  ?  " 

"  See  for  yourself,"  he  answered,  refilling  his 
glass. 

She  rose  from  the  table  and  brought  from  a 
small  cabinet  the  morocco  case,  unopened  since 
Arthur  had  given  it  to  her.  A  certain  dread  and 
distaste  had  prevented  her  examining  it.  Now 
she  sat  down  again  in  her  place,  a  beautiful  woman, 
with  the  light  falling  upon  her  from  above,  shining 
upon  her  golden  hair,  and  bringing  out  the  hues 
of  her  sea-blue  dress.  Her  husband  watched  her 
as  she  held  the  case  a  moment  in  her  delicate, 
firm  fingers  before  unclasping  it.  He  had  learned 
within  these  last  weeks  that  his  old  love  for  Helen 
had  re-awakened  ;  or  more  truly  that  a  new  affec- 
tion had  been  born.  The  knowledge  had  come  to 
him  through  thinking  upon  the  relations  between 
Helen  and  Arthur  and  in  speculating  concerning 
her  feeling  for  Grant  Herman,  and  it  had 
been  in  his  mind  when  he  described  love  as 
the  desire  for  the  impossible.  He  had  determined 
to  speak  his  passion,  but  as  he  looked  at  his  wife 
sitting  within  arm's  length  yet  as  remote  as  if  half 
the  world  lay  between  them,  he  hesitated. 


WEIGHING  DELIGHT  AND  DOLE.  193 

Helen  unclasped  the  case  and  lifted  the  tiny 
cut-glass  vial  from  its  velvet  bed. 

"  How  extravagant  you  were  in  your  vial,"  she 
said,  involuntarily  lifting  it  to  her  nostrils. 

"  Don't ! "  Dr.  Ashton  exclaimed,  leaning  for- 
ward  suddenly. 

"  Is  it  so  deadly  as  that !  "  she  asked  in  some 
dismay,  holding  it  off. 

"  It  is  simply  pure  prussic  acid,"  he  replied. 
"  But  it  might  be  loosely  stopped." 

She  examined  carefully  the  minute  writing  en- 
graved upon  the  glass. 

"  '  Death  foils  the  gods,'  "  she  read.  "  Is  it  one 
of  your  own  wickednesses,  Will?" 

"  I  don't  know.  By  the  way,  we  might  send  it 
to  Mrs.  Fenton  now  as  a  souvenir  of  the  two  de- 
sirable acquaintances  she  has  lost." 

"  What  a  brood  of  vipers  she  must  think  us, 
Will.  I  think  it  is  pathetic,  probably ;  but  I  can- 
not help  being  amused.  It  is  rather  an  odd  sensa- 
tion to  find  that  instead  of  being  the  harmless, 
insignificant  body  I  have  always  supposed,  I  am 
really  a  hardened  and  abandoned  reprobate." 

"  Oh,  I've  always  known  it,  but  I  did  not 
tell  you  for  fear  of  destroying  your  peace  of 
mind." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  sighed  Helen,  rather  absently, 
"  that — if  you  don't  mind  the  slang — Arthur  has 
an  elephant  on  his  hands." 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  other,  "  himself." 


194  THE  PAGANS. 

She  laughed  musically,  toying  with  the  little 
cut-glass  vial. 

"  How  familiarity  takes  away  the  dread  of  any 
thing,"  she  remarked.  "  We  become  accustomed 
to  any  thing ;  and,  while  I  dare  say  it  is  the 
shallowest  of  sophistry,  that  ought  to  be  an  argu- 
ment in  favor  of  the  theory  that  vice  and  fearful- 
ness  are  alike  only  strangeness." 

"  That  is  rather  a  sophistical  bit  of  logic  ;  so 
perfectly  so  that  it  ought  to  be  theology.  Excuse 
me,  but  could  you  let  me  have  a  morsel  of  cheese." 

"  There  does  not  seem  to  be  any  for  you  to 
have,"  she  said,  glancing  over  the  table. 

"  Isn't  there,"  returned  he,  as  carelessly  as  if  he 
had  not  noted  that  fact.  "  It  is  of  no  conse- 
quence." 

"  Oh,  I  can  easily  get  it ;  I  suppose  Hannah 
forgot  it." 

She  restored  the  vial  to  its  place,  laying  the 
closed  case  by  her  plate,  and  left  the  room.  The 
instant  the  door  closed  behind  her,  Dr.  Ashton 
reached  across  the  table,  possessed  himself  of  the 
vial,  returning  the  case  to  its  former  position.  His 
wife  turned  just  outside  the  door,  and  came  back 
with  a  meaning  smile  to  take  up  the  empty  case 
and  lock  it  again  in  the  cabinet. 

"  I  cannot  trust  you,"  she  remarked  with  a 
smile ;  "  you  are  too  eager  to  foil  the  gods." 

He  smiled  in  return,  holding  his  wine-glass  up 
to  the  light. 


WEIGHING  DELIGHT  AND  DOLE.  195 

"  There  is  more  where  that  came  from,"  he  said. 
"  You  forget  my  profession." 

"  Of  what  are  you  musing  so  intently?"  Helen 
queried,  half  an  hour  later,  while,  the  supper  being 
ended,  her  husband  was  enjoying  his  cigar. 

"  Of  two  things  which  I  have  to  communicate. 
One  is  a  folly  and  the  other — or  perhaps  I  should 
say  each — is  a  misfortune." 

"  The  folly,"  returned  she,  "  I  forgive  ;  the  mis- 
fortune I  regret.  What  are  they?" 

"  I  am  glad  you  forgive  the  folly.  That  gives 
me  boldness  to  tell  it.  I  have  fallen  in  love." 

"You,  Will!     With  whom?" 

"  That  is  the  madness  of  it.     With  my  wife." 

"  Will !  " 

"  It  is  the  truth,"  he  went  on,  half  whimsically, 
but  with  a  certain  ring  of  earnestness  in  his  tone. 
"  I  acknowledge  the  madness,  the  poor  taste  of  a 
man's  falling  in  love  with  his  own  wife,  but  the 
fact  stubbornly  remains.  I  have  been  in  love  with 
you  for  a  long  time,  but  I  stood  back  for  Arthur 
like  a  good  fellow." 

"  I  never  was  in  love  with  Arthur,"  she  inter- 
rupted. 

"  It  is  no  matter,"  he  continued.  "The  ques- 
tion is,  can't  you  get  up  a  grain  of  grace  for  me, 
old  lady?  " 

He  leaned  over  the  table,  his  dark  eyes  shining 
as  she  had  never  seen  them  before.  She  was  fas- 
cinated by  his  gaze  ;  she  felt  as  if  the. ground  were 


196  THE  PAGANS. 

slipping  from  beneath  her  feet,  and  as  though  he 
were  casting  upon  her  an  evil  spell.  A  wave  of 
despair  swept  over  her.  Must  she  again  submit 
to  his  power  ;  were  the  old  days  of  bitter  bondage 
to  return ;  was  she  nothing  but  a  puppet  to  his 
will? 

In  this  extremity  a  memory  saved  her.  Unable 
to  withdraw  her  gaze  from  her  husband's  face, 
there  came  to  her  suddenly  the  look  in  the  eyes  of 
Grant  Herman  that  day  when  he  told  her  his  love. 
The  blood  surged  to  her  cheeks,  but  her  calmness 
returned. 

"  It  is  of  no  use,  Will,"  she  said  with  gentle 
firmness.  "All  that  is  past  forever  between  us. 
We  had  better  not  speak  of  it,"  she  added  wist- 
fully. "  I  have  so  few  friends  that  I  cannot  bear 
to  lose  any  one  of  them." 

"  My  folly  is  then  my  misfortune,"  he  responded, 
with  no  appearance  of  diminished  good  humor. 
"It  is  the  pleasure  of  the  gods  to  torment  me  ;  I 
suppose  it  amuses  them.  The  old  Romans  were 
only  aping  them  in  their  blood-thirsty  sports,  and 
I  fancy  that  is  the  secret  of  their  deification,  for 
nothing  seems  so  much  to  the  liking  of  the  gods 
as  to  torment  humanity." 

The  evident  endeavor  which  the  speaker  made 
to  appear  flippant  and  at  his  ease  showed  her  how 
deeply  he  was  moved.  His  wife  felt  this  without 
fully  reasoning  it  out,  and  the  consciousness  that 
this  self-controlled  man  was  so  stirred  awoke 


WEIGHING  DELIGHT  AND  DOLE.  197 

in  her  a  strange  and  powerful  excitement. 
She  turned  a  shade  paler,  as  she  looked 
silently  down  into  her  wine-glass.  Her  own  life 
had  been  too  sad  for  her  not  to  feel  some  emotion 
at  his  words.  She  strove  to  repress  the  thoughts 
which  made  her  bosom  swell  and  heave,  yet  it  was 
from  them  her  words  came  when  she  broke  the 
silence. 

"  It  is  bitterest  to  find  one's  self  mistaken.  To 
find  that  our  gods  are  only  clay  like  the  rest  of 
humanity.  I  could  forgive  a  friend  for  neglect, 
abuse  or  any  cruelty ;  but  I  could  never  forgive 
him  for  falling  below  my  ideal  of  him." 

"You  do  not  mean  me,"  he  returned  placidly, 
"  for  of  me  you  never  had  an  ideal ;  but  waiving 
that  for  a  moment,  I  should  like  to  tell  you  of  my 
second  misfortune — if  it  isn't  to  be  reckoned  a 
blessing." 

She  looked  at  him  without  speaking.  If  this 
disclosure  were  but  a  repetition  in  varied  form  of 
the  other,  she  had  no  wish  to  help  him  put  it  into 
words.  Yet  even  as  this  thought  passed  through 
her  mind,  she  fancied  she  had  detected  in  his  tone 
some  new  gravity. 

"  I've  discovered,"  continued  Dr.  Ashton,  with 
the  same  light  manner  he  had  used  throughout 
the  interview,  "  that  I  have  a  cancer  gayly  but 
with  grim  persistency  developing  under  my  arm." 

"  Oh,  Will,"  Helen  cried,  clasping  her  hands, 
"  you  are  not  in  earnest !  " 


198  THE  PAGANS. 

"  I  assure  you  it  is  a  very  earnest  matter  with 
me,  and  has  been  for  some  time.  I  might  have 
an  operation,  I  suppose,  if  it  were  worth  while ; 
though  it  is  so  near  the  heart  that  it  would  be  un- 
comfortably risky." 

Helen  became  suddenly  calm.  The  color  faded 
slowly  from  her  cheeks,  and  her  husband,  watch- 
ing her  narrowly,  saw  her  beautiful  lips  assume  a 
new  expression  of  firmness  and  determination. 
She  unconsciously  lifted  her  head  into  a  more 
erect  carriage.  Her  eyes  were  moist  and  full  of 
feeling.  Slowly  in  her  mind  formed  a  resolve, 
and  with  a  full  knowledge  of  the  renunciation  of 
self  which  it  involved,  she  called  up  all  the  nobility 
of  her  soul  to  aid  her  in  living  up  to  it.  Creeds 
were  little  to  this  woman,  yet  her  life  was  formed 
upon  the  principles  which  give  to  creeds  their 
stability,  and  by  which  the  moral  is  removed  from 
the  animal. 

"  Will,"  she  at  length  said,  slowly  and  gravely, 
"  could  it  not  be  arranged  for  me  to  live  with  you  ? 
You  did  not  tell  me  you  were  fond  of  me  without 
having  thought  out  the  possibilities." 

"  I  should  have  hesitated  to  ask  so  much,"  was 
his  reply,  "  even  of  your  love ;  I  shall  certainly 
not  take  it  of  your  pity." 

"  My  pity  ?  "  she  murmured,  not  raising  her  eyes. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  You  know.  You  cannot  think  me  so  dull  as 
not  to  see  that  your  proffer  comes  not  from  affec- 


WEIGHING  DELIGHT  AND  DOLE.  199 

tion,  but  from  generosity.  I  thank  you,  but  I  will 
accept  no  sacrifices." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  put  out  his  hand. 

"  I  must  be  going,"  he  said  in  an  indifferent 
tone.  "  I  have  letters  to  write  that  must  be 
mailed  by  midnight.  I  am  not  more  than  half  as 
bad,  Helen,  as  you  have  always  persisted  in 
thinking.  I  never  made  very  profound  preten- 
sions, but  I've  treated  every  body  squarely  from 
my  own  point  of  view.  If  they  have  regarded  my 
blessings  as  curses,  it  wasn't  my  fault,  and  I  am 
not  sufficiently  hypocritical  to  pretend  that  I  think 
it  was.  Good  night." 

He  gave  her  hand  a  warmer  and  more  lingering 
pressure  than  usual. 

"  I've  had  a  very  pleasant  evening,"  he  added, 
"  despite  the  admixture  of  truth.  Young  people 
don't  like  any  bitters,  but  we  old,  shattered  wrecks 
need  a  dash  of  it  in  the  wine  of  life  to  help  diges- 
tion. Good  night." 


XXVIII. 

LIKE   COVERED   FIRE. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing  ;  iii. — i. 

THAT  night  marked  an  epoch  in  the  married  life 
of  Arthur  and  Edith  Fenton. 

The  results  of  matrimony  upon  character  are 
for  the  most  part  slow  and  hardly  perceptible,  yet 
even  so  not  without  certain  well-defined  stages 
by  which  their  progression  forces  itself  into  recog- 
nition ;  and  in  fervid  temperaments  like  that  of 
the  artist,  any  change  is  sure  to  be  rapid,  and 
marked  by  sharp  and  sudden  crises. 

Edith  returned  from  Helen  with  her  soul  in  a 
tumult.  Grant  Herman  had  described  more  than 
her  face  when  he  applied  to  her  the  epithet  nun- 
like.  It  was  a  source  of  perpetual  wonderment  to 
many  of  her  friends  that  such  a  girl  could  be  so 
strongly  attracted  by  Arthur  Fenton  ;  but  those 
who  knew  his  marvelous  flexibility,  the  uncon- 
scious hypocrisy  with  which  he  adapted  himself  to 
any  nature  with  which  he  came  in  contact,  and  on 
the  other  hand  his  fascinating  manner,  at  once 
brilliant  and  sympathetic,  felt  Edith's  love  to  be 
the  perfectly  natural  consequence.  She  believed 
him  to  be  what  she  wished,  and  he,  without  con- 


LIKE  CO  VERED  FIRE.  2OI 

scious  deceit,  became  for  the  time  being  what  she 
believed  him  to  be. 

It  was  a  theory  of  Dr.  Ashton's  that  what  Ar- 
thur Fenton  became  was  so  purely  a  question  of 
environment  as  to  leave  the  artist  all  but  irre- 
sponsible. This  fatalistic  view  he  had  laid  before 
his  wife  with  some  detail,  at  once  explaining 
and  defending  his  position. 

"  If  a  chameleon  is  put  upon  a  black  tree,"  he 
said  on  one  occasion  when  the  matter  was  under 
discussion,  "  you  have  really  no  right  to  blame 
him  for  becoming  black  too  ;  it  is  simply  his  nature. 
If  Arthur  is  like  that  it  isn't  his  fault.  He  wasn't 
consulted,  I  fancy,  about  how  he  should  be  made 
at  all.  He  is  self-indulgent,  and  if  a  point  hurts 
him  he  glides  away  from  it.  He  cannot 
help  it." 

"There  is  something  in  what  you  say,"  Helen 
had  reluctantly  assented,  "  but  I  think  you  put  it 
far  too  strongly." 

"  Oh,  very  likely,"  was  the  careless  reply.  "  His 
strongest  instinct,  though,  is  to  escape  pain.  We 
are  none  of  us  better  than  our  instincts." 

To  such  a  decision  as  this,  had  she  heard  it, 
Edith,  too  religious  to  acknowledge  any  thing 
tending  towards  fatalism,  would  not  for  a  mo- 
ment have  agreed  ;  yet  it  embodied  a  truth  des- 
tined to  cause  her  deepest  sorrow,  and  which 
was  gradually  forcing  itself  upon  her.  Already, 
although  they  had  been  married  so  few  weeks, 


202  THE  PAGANS. 

even  her  love-blinded  eyes  could  not  but  per- 
ceive much  in  her  husband  which  shocked  and 
pained  her.  She  had  not  considered  deeply 
enough,  never  having  had  the  experience  which 
would  have  taught  her  the  need  of  considering, 
how  great  was  the  gulf  between  her  moral  stand- 
point and  that  of  her  betrothed.  He  had  seemed 
so  yielding  that  she  had  failed  to  perceive  that 
his  compliances  were  merely  outward,  and  left 
his  mental  attitude  unchanged.  Now  when  it 
became  necessary,  as  in  every  wedded  life  it  must 
sooner  or  later,  for  her  to  appeal  to  his  ultimate 
moral  belief,  she  was  startled  to  find  nothing 
with  which  she  was  in  sympathy.  A  cynic — or, 
indeed,  her  husband  himself — would  have  assured 
her  that  it  was,  after  all,  a  question  of  standards 
merely,  and  that  difference  of  judgment  was  nat- 
ural and  inevitable,  and  that  measured  by  his  own 
convictions  Arthur  was  quite  well  enough.  Her 
answer  to  such  a  proposition  would  have  been 
that  there  was  but  one  standard,  and  that  what 
differed  from  that  were  not  moral  principles 
at  all,  but  excuses  for  immoral  obliquity. 

Outwardly,  it  is  true,  there  was  little  in  her  hus- 
band's life  of  which  Edith  could  complain.  He 
accompanied  her  to  church,  and  if  he  quizzed  the 
preacher  after  returning  home,  she  was  ready  to 
excuse  this  as  the  natural  result  of  a  keen  appre- 
ciation of  the  ludicrous.  He  allowed  her  to  do  as 
she  chose  in  the  matter  of  charity  work,  and  he 


LIKE  COVERED  FIRE.  203 

even  refrained  from  going  to  his  studio  on  Sunday, 
a  sacrifice  whose  magnitude  she  had  no  means  of 
estimating,  and  which  she  therefore  thought  would 
be  continuous.  It  was  when  some  ethical  ques- 
tion arose  between  them  that  Edith  was  disqui- 
eted, feeling  sometimes  as  if  she  were  looking  into 
black  deeps  of  immorality.  The  principles  which 
to  her  were  most  sacred,  were  to  him  light  sub- 
jects upon  which,  she  was  well  aware,  only  her 
presence  prevented  his  jesting.  The  most  obvious 
laws  of  rectitude  were  but  thistle-down  before  the 
whirlwind  of  his  subversive  theories  ;  and  Edith 
found  argument  impossible  with  one  who  denied 
her  every  premise. 

His  old  acquaintances  found  in  Arthur  Fenton 
a  change  more  subtle  but  none  the  less  distasteful. 
It  was  a  trait  of  his  nature  to  assume  the  charac- 
ter he  was  half  unconsciously  acting,  as  a  player 
may  between  the  scenes  still  feel  the  personality 
he  is  simulating  upon  tlie  stage  ;  and  there  was 
about  Fenton  when  he  came  in  contact  with  the 
Pagans,  a  vague  air  of  remonstrance  and  disap- 
proval, even  when  he  was  as  bold  as  ever  in  his 
own  cynical  utterances. 

"An  expression  of  virtuous  indignation  isn't 
becoming  in  you,  Fenton,"  Rangely  said  to  him 
one  day.  "  Especially  in  a  discussion  which  you 
started  yourself  by  the  most  shocking  piece  of 
wickedness  I  ever  heard." 

And  among  all  the  Pagans  there  existed  a  yet 


204  THE  PAGANS. 

unspoken  feeling  that  Fenton  was  ceasing  to  be 
one  of  them. 

On  returning  from  Helen's,  Edith  found  her 
husband  still  engaged  with  Dr.  Ashton,  but  as 
soon  as  the  latter  had  gone  Arthur  came  to  her 
room. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  sinking  leisurely  into  a  chair. 
"  Do  you  feel  any  milder?  Have  you  had  your 
dinner?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  not  leaving  her  seat  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room.  "  I  have  been  dining 
with  Mrs.  Ashton." 

"  What ! "  cried  Arthur,  as  if  a  bomb  had  ex- 
ploded at  his  feet.  Then  he  sank  back  into  his 
languid  position.  "So  she  has  told  you,"  he  re- 
marked carelessly. 

"Yes,  she  has  told  me.  Did  you  know,  Arthur, 
when  you  brought  us  together,  that  she  was  liv- 
ing under  a  false  name,  and  under  false  pretenses  ?  " 

"  I  knew  certainly,"  replied  her  husband  with  a 
coolness  that  marked  his  inward  irritation,  "  that 
her  legal  name  was  Ashton.  I  have  still  to  learn 
that  she  is  living  under  false  pretenses." 

"  Is  it  not  false,"  retorted  Edith,  with  difficulty 
controlling  her  voice,  her  indignation  increasing 
with  every  word,  "  to  pass  as  widow,  to  live  sepa- 
rated from  her  husband  ?  " 

"Oh,  false ?  Why,  in  your  stiff,  conventional 
definition  of  the  word  that  calls  the  letter  every 
thing,  the  spirit  nothing,  I  dare  say  it  is  false  ;  but 


LIKE  COVERED  FIRE.  205 

what  of  that  ?  She  has  a  right  to  do  as  she  pleases, 
has  she  not  ?" 

Edith  drew  herself  back  in  her  chair  and  looked 
at  him  across  the  dimly  lighted  chamber.  It  is 
but  justice  to  her  husband  to  consider  that  he 
could  not  dream  of  the  anguish  she  suffered.  It 
was,  as  he  so  often  said,  a  question  of  standards. 
By  his,  she  was  narrow,  uncharitable,  even  bigoted  ; 
tried  by  the  code  of  more  orthodox  circles  she 
was  simply  high-minded,  true  and  noble  in  her  de- 
votion to  principle.  She  was  neither  bigoted  nor 
prudish,  however  the  alien  circumstances  in  which 
she  was  placed  made  her  appear  so.  To  her  it 
was  a  vital  question  of  right  and  purity  of  which 
Arthur  disposed  with  such  contemptuous  lightness. 
True  as  the  sunlight  herself,  no  pang  could  be 
more  bitter  than  the  knowledge  that  the  truth  was 
not  sacred  to  the  man  she  loved.  Her  husband's 
words  pierced  her  like  a  dagger.  It  was  some 
minutes  before  she  answered  him.  He  rose 
moodily,  lit  a  cigar  at  the  gas  jet  and  sat  down 
again  before  she  broke  the  silence. 

"Arthur,"  she  said  in  a  voice  which  was  sad  and 
full  of  the  solemnity  of  deep  feeling,  "  have  you  no 
regard  for  truth  ?  " 

"  Truth  !  "  retorted  he.  "  To  go  back  to  Pilate's 
conundrum,  'What  is  truth?'  If  you  mean  a 
strict  and  fantastic  adherence  to  facts  and  to  stiff 
conventional  rules,  no,  I  haven't  the  slightest  re- 
gard for  truth.  If  you  mean  the  eternal  verities 


206  THE  PAGANS. 

as  a  man's  own  nature  and  the  occasion  interpret 
them,  yes,  I  have  the  highest." 

"  But  that  is  only  a  confusion  of  words,  Arthur. 
What  do  you  mean  by  '  eternal  verities '  if  not 
adherence  to  facts?  The  eternal  verities  cannot 
be  whatever  it  pleases  any  one  to  say.  Doesn't 
all  human  intercourse  depend  upon  faith  in  one 
another  that  we  will  adhere  to  facts  ?  Even  if 
you  do  not  look  at  the  right  and  the  wrong,  there 
are  surely  reasons  enough  why  the  truth  should  be 
sacred." 

Her  husband  whiffed  his  cigar,  idly  blowing  a 
succession  of  graceful  rings. 

"  You  are  quite  a  metaphysician.  Did  you  have 
a  pleasant  dinner  ?  " 

"  But,  Arthur,"  Edith  persisted,  ignoring  his 
attempt  to  break  away,  according  to  his  habit, 
from  a  discussion  which  did  not  please  him,  "  but, 
Arthur,  do  you  think  it  right  for  Mrs.  Greyson — 
Mrs.  Ashton,  I  mean,  to  live  so?" 

"  Right  ?  Oh,  that  is  the  same  old  question  in 
another  shape.  Mr.  Candish  will  answer  all  those 
theological  riddles  ;  it  ia  his  business  to.  They 
don't  interest  me." 

He  threw  away  his  half  smoked  cigar,  dusted 
his  coat  sleeve  of  a  stray  fleck  of  ash,  settled  his 
cravat  before  the  glass,  and  humming  a  tune 
walked  towards  his  wife,  his  hands  clasped  behind 
him. 

"  We  do  not  agree,  Edith,"  he  said  with  cold 


LIKE  COVERED  FIRE.  207 

deliberation,"  and  unless  you  broaden  your  views, 
I  am  afraid  we  never  shall.  You  are  a  dozen  dec- 
ades behind  the  day,  and  are  foolish  enough  to 
take  all  your  church  teaches  you  in  earnest.  Re- 
ligion should  no  more  be  taken  without  salt  than 
radishes.  The  church  inculcates  it  to  excuse  its 
own  existence,  but  you  certainly  are  reasonable 
enough  to  outgrow  this  old-fashioned  Puritanism." 

"  Arthur,"  was  her  answer,  "  we  do  not  agree, 
and  if  you  wait  for  me  to  come  to  your  standards, 
I  am  afraid  you  are  right  in  saying  that  we  never 
shall ;  and,  indeed,  I  hope  you  are  right.  It  makes 
me  more  unhappy  than  you  can  think,"  she  con- 
tinued, her  eyes  swimming  with  bitter  tears, "  that 
we  are  so  far  apart  on  what  I  must  believe  to  be 
vital  points ;  on  truths  which  I  believe,  Arthur, 
with  my  whole  soul — as  you  would,  too,  had  you 
not  carefully  educated  yourself  into  a  doubt  which 
cannot  make  you  better  or  happier." 

She  had  risen  as  she  spoke,  and  stood  facing 
him,  her  pure,  pale  face  confronting  his  with  a 
look  of  pathos  which  touched  him  despite  himself. 
She  came  a  step  nearer,  and  put  her  arms  about 
his  neck. 

"  Oh,  Arthur !  "  she  pleaded,  "  I  love  you,  and 
how  can  I  help  mourning  that  you  wrong  your 
better  nature ;  that  you  resist  the  impulses  of  your 
own  best  self?" 

He  yielded  to  her  caresses  in  silence.  He  re- 
membered that  Helen  had  used  this  same  phrase. 


208  THE  PAGANS. 

"  Women  always  appeal  to  one's  best  self,"  he 
commented  inly,  with  a  mental  shrug,  "  which 
means  a  man's  inclination  to  do  whatever  a  woman 
asks  of  him." 

But  he  kissed  his  wife's  lips,  and  said,  tol- 
erantly : 

"  We  will  talk  it  over  some  other  time,  my  dear. 
We  are  both  tired  to-night.  But  you  are  right,  I 
suppose,  as  you  always  are." 

And  she  loosened  her  arms  from  his  neck, 
recognizing  that  he  had  put  her  appeal  aside  and 
waived  the  whole  matter. 


XXIX. 

A  NECESSARY  EVIL. 

Julius  Caesar  ;  ii. — 2. 

AT  the  St.  Filipe  Club,  somewhere  in  the  small 
hours  of  that  same  night,  half-a-dozen  mem- 
bers were  lingering.  One  was  at  the  piano,  recall- 
ing snatches  from  various  composers,  the  air 
being  clouded  alike  with  music  and  smoke 
wreaths. 

"  I  think  you  fellows  are  hard  on  Fenton,"  the 
musician  protested,  in  response  to  some  remark  of 
Ainsworth's.  "  I  don't  see  what  he's  done  to 
make  you  all  so  down  on  him." 

"  It  isn't  any  thing  that  he  has  done,"  Tom 
Bently  replied,  "it  is  what  he  has  become.  He 
has  developed  an  entirely  new  side  of  his  nature, 
and  a  deucedly  unpleasant  one,  too." 

"  I  always  had  a  mental  reservation  on  Fenton," 
remarked  another.  "  He  was  always  insisting  that 
his  soul  was  his  own,  don't  you  know ;  and  when 
a  man  keeps  that  up  I  always  conclude  that  he 
has  his  private  doubts  on  the  subject ;  or  if  he 
hasn't,  I  have." 

"  That's  about  the  case  with  all  the  musical 
rowing  we've  been  having  for  the  last  year  or  two; 


210  THE  PAGANS.  « 

every  musician  has  been  in  a  fever  lest  he  should 
be  thought  to  be  truckling  to  somebody." 

"  What  rubbish  all  this  concert  business  is,"  re- 
marked Tom.  "  In  Boston  a  concert  interests  a 
little  clique  of  people,  and  another  bigger  clique 
pretend  to  be  interested.  The  nonsense  that  is 
talked  about  music  here  is  nauseating.  The  public 
doesn't  really  care  any  thing  about  it.  In  Boston 
a  concert  is  given  in  Music  Hall ;  but  in  Paris  it  is 
given  in  the  whole  city.  It  is  an  event  there,  not 
a  trifling  incident." 

"What  do  you  know  about  music?"  retorted 
the  player,  clashing  a  furious  discord  with  his  el- 
bow as  he  turned  towards  the  speaker.  "I'll  at- 
tend to  you  presently.  Now  I  want  to  know  about 
Fenton.  What  has  he  done  that  you  are  all  black- 
guarding him?" 

"I  think  he's  got  a  creed,"  said  Ainsworth, 
scowling  and  smiling  together,  according  to  his 
wont.  "  I  hate  to  charge  a  man  with  any  thing  so 
black,  but  I  think  Fenton's  wife  has  made  him 
take  a  creed,  and  a  pretty  damned  narrow  one  at 
that." 

"  By  Jove ! "  the  musician  observed,  solemnly. 
"  It's  too  bad.  Fenton  is  a  mighty  bright  fellow, 
and  no  end  obliging." 

*"  If  it's  only  a  creed,"  swore  Bently,  "  what's  all 
this  fuss  about  ?  Every  body  has  a  creed,  hasn't 
he?  A  man's  temperament  is  his  creed." 

"  It  isn't  his  having  a  creed  that  I  object  to,  " 


A  NE  CESSAR  Y  E  VIL.  211 

remarked  Grant  Herman  ;  "  it  is  the  question  of 
his  sincerity  that  troubles  me.  If  he  has  taken 
up  some  collection  of  dogmas  merely  to  please 
his  wife — who  seems  a  very  sweet,  quiet  body — 
that  is  of  course  against  him ;  but  if  he  believes 
it,  I  don't  see  why  we  should  object." 

"  Believes  it !  "  sniffed  Ainsworth,  in  great  con- 
tempt. "That  is  worse  than  any  thing  I've  said. 
I  don't  think  Fenton  is  quite  such  an  idiot  as  that 
comes  to.  The  idea  of  his  believing  in  Puritan- 
ism !  Oh,  good  Lord  !  " 

"  Puritanism,"  Bently  threw  in  irrelevantly,  and 
because  he  liked  the  sound  of  it,  "  Puritanism  is 
the  preliminary  rottenness  of  New  England.  If 
he  is  struck  with  that  by  all  means  let  him  go  ;  the 
further  the  better." 

"  Isn't  it  his  night  for  the  Pagans  this  month  ?  " 
somebody  inquired. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Bently,  "  but  I  took  the  lib- 
erty of  going  to  him  and  asking  if  he  would  let  me 
take  it  this  turn.  I  hope  you  fellows  don't  mind." 

The  talk  thus  flowed  on  in  a  desultory  fash- 
ion amid  ever  thickening  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke, 
and  Grant  Herman,  sitting  for  the  most  part 
quiet,  had  a  whimsical  idea  in  looking  at  his  half- 
extinguished  cigar.  Certain  excellent  cigars,  his 
thoughts  ran,  have  a  way  of  burning  sluggishly 
about  the  middle,  and  without  actually  going  out, 
yet  need  to  be  relighted ;  and  in  the  same  way  a 
man's  life  goes  on  better  for  the  kindling  flame  of 


212  THE  PAGANS. 

a  fresh  attachment  in  middle  life.  He  fell  into 
reverie,  thinking  of  Helen  and  of  Ninitta.  He 
had  not  seen  the  Italian  since  her  flight,  but  from 
Mrs.  Greyson  he  had  learned  the  story  of  the 
finding  and  recovery  of  the  fugitive ;  and  his 
heart  kindled  with  gratitude  toward  the 
woman  who  had  prevented  consequences 
which  he  should  have  fruitlessly  regretted.  He 
became  so  absorbed  in  his  thoughts  that  only 
the  entrance  of  Fred  Rangely  aroused  him. 

"  Hallo,  Rangely,"  the  new  comer  was  greeted, 
"  where  do  you  come  from  at  this  time  of  night  ?" 

"  Oh,  from  the  office  of  the  Daily  Day-before- 
yesterday.  I  had  an  article  in,  and  I  wanted  to 
read  the  proof.  I  can  stand  any  thing  in  the 
world  better  than  I  can  endure  a  compositor's 
blunders.  Do  any  of  you  know  Dr.  Ashton  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  somebody  answered.     "  What  of  him  ?" 

"  Rather  clever  fellow,  wasn't  he?  " 

"Why,  yes;  I  think  he  is.  He's  rather  odd 
sometimes.  What  about  him  ?" 

"  Dead." 

"  Nonsense !  I  saw  him  myself  not  three  hours 
ago,  posting  a  letter  in  the  box  opposite  his  office." 

"  He  is  dead,  though.  Heart  disease.  They 
just  got  the  news  at  the  Advertiser  office." 

"  Where  was  he  ?  " 

"  In  his  office.  The  night  porter  of  the  build- 
ing heard  him  fall  against  the  door.  They  say  he 
must  have  died  without  a  struggle." 


XXX. 

HOW    CHANCES   MOCK. 

ii  Henry  IV.;  iii. — I. 

"PEARLY  on  the  following  forenoon  Helen  took 
-L/  her  way  to  the  studio.  She  was  in  unusually  good 
spirits  that  day,  for  no  especial  reason  that  she 
could  have  told,  although  indeed  it  is  possible 
that  the  prospect  of  meeting  Grant  Herman  may 
have  subtly  contributed  to  the  buoyancy  of  her 
mood. 

She  walked  briskly  through  the  bracing  morn- 
ing across  the  Common,  her  mind  full  of  bright 
fancies.  A  thin  column  of  smoke  arose  from  the 
chimney  of  the  lodge  in  the  deer-park,  rising 
straight  in  the  clear  air,  and  cheerfully  suggestive 
that  some  tiny  family,  not  too  large  for  the  build- 
ing, were  at  breakfast  within.  It  might  even  be 
the  deer  themselves ;  and  Helen  smiled  at  her 
whim,  almost  laughing  outright  as  a  picture  arose 
of  a  matronly  doe  preparing  coffee,  while  a  solemn 
buck  sat  in  his  easy  chair  before  the  fire,  reading 
his  morning  paper  and  now  and  then  glancing  at 
his  wife  over  his  spectacles. 

In  this  joyous  mood  she  came  to  the  studio.  A 
sudden  thought  darted  through  her  mind,  with  no 


214  THE  PAGANS. 

apparent  connection,  of  the  talk  of  the  night  previ- 
ous, and  for  an  instant  her  face  clouded  ;  but  the  ex- 
hilaration of  the  morning  and  the  reaction  from  the 
sad,  overstrained  state  in  which  her  husband  had 
left  her,  both  helped  her  to  throw  off  all  mournful 
thoughts.  Ninitta  had  not  arrived,  and  Mrs. 
Greyson  busied  herself  'about  the  bas-relier,  pre- 
paring for  work.  Suddenly  the  tap  of  Grant  Her- 
man sounded  upon  her  door. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  said,  entering  in  response 
to  her  invitation.  "  I  knew  by  your  step  that  you 
were  in  good  spirits,  and  it  gave  me  so  much 
pleasure  to  think  you  were  glad  to  be  back,  that  I 
had  to  come  up." 

"  I  am  in  good  spirits,"  she  returned.  "  It  is 
such  a  glorious  morning,  and  Ninitta  has  kept  me 
away  from  my  work  long  enough  for  me  to  be 
very  glad  to  return  to  it." 

"  What  of  Ninitta  ?  "  he  asked,  a  shadow  coming 
over  his  fine  face.  "  She  is  not  still  with  you  ?  " 

"  No,  but  she  is  coming  to  pose  this  morning, 
though  I  hardly  think  she  is  strong  enough." 

The  sculptor  took  in  his  hands  a  bit  of  clay  and 
began  nervously  to  model  it  into  various  shapes. 

"  Why  did  you  take  her  home,  Mrs.  Greyson  ?  " 
he  asked  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Because  she  needed  me,"  Helen  answered. 
"And  besides,"  she  added  hesitatingly,  "  I  thought 
you  would  like  her  to  be  under  my  care." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  he  returned  eagerly.  "  I  was  more 


HO  W  CHANCES  MOCK.  2 1 5 

grateful  to  you  than  you  would  let  me  tell  you  ! 
I " 

He  broke  off  abruptly  as  if  determined  to  keep 
himself  from  any  dangerous  demonstrativeness. 

"  Come  into  my  studio  a  moment,"  said  he, 
throwing  down  the  clay  he  held.  "  I  have  some- 
thing to  show  you." 

Helen  followed  willingly,  glad  to  avoid  the 
chance  of  their  being  interrupted  by  the  arrival 
of  Ninitta,  whose  jealousy  might  easily  be 
aroused  again.  The  sculptor  led  the  way  through 
a  couple  of  chambers,  bringing  her  out  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs  leading  down  in  the  corner  of  his 
studio.  The  morning  sun  shone  in  through  the 
window  far  up  in  the  side  wall,  tinged  to  rich 
colors  by  the  stained  glass  which  Herman  had  set 
there.  The  statues  and  casts  looked  in  the  light 
coming  from  above  them,  as  if  they  had  just 
emerged  from  garments  of  shadows  which  yet  lay 
fallen  about  their  feet.  Helen  uttered  an  excla- 
mation of  admiration. 

"  How  charming  the  studio  is  in  this  light,"  she 
said.  "  It  is  like  looking  down  into  a  ghost 
world." 

"  It  is  a  ghost  world,"  was  the  response.  "  It 
has  long  been  haunted,  but  I  had  not  supposed 
that  any  eyes  but  my  own  saw  the  wraiths  which 
dwell  here." 

The  vibratory  quality  in  his  voice  warned  her 
not  to  answer.  She  felt  that  she  stood  upon  the 


216  THE  PAGANS. 

brink  of  a  significant  interview,  yet  she  lacked  the 
resolution  to  turn  back. 

She  descended  the  first  flight  of  steps  into  the 
gallery,  the  sculptor  following  closely.  She  could 
not  have  defined  to  herself  what  she  wished  or  in- 
tended. Somewhat  paradoxically  she  wished  to 
escape  from  Herman,  yet  had  she  fled  she  would 
have  been  unhappy  had  he  not  pursued.  Nothing 
is  more  contradictory  than  a  nascent  passion,  and, 
indeed,  the  tenderness  of  any  woman  for  a  man  is 
not  very  profound  if  unmixed  with  some  desire  to 
escape  from  him. 

All  sorts  of  artistic  rubbish  had  accumulated  in 
the  little  gallery;  broken  casts,  fragments  of 
statues  and  vases,  pieces  of  time  discolored  marble, 
and  the  thousand  objects  which  make  up  the 
debris  of  a  sculptor's  studio.  A  bit  of  warm 
colored  though  faded  tapestry  hung  dustily  over 
the  railing  of  the  little  balcony,  making  the  white 
plaster  goddess  appear  doubly  wan.  Against  it 
stood  a  small  antique  altar,  around  whose  base  a 
train  of  garland-bearing  Cupids  danced  in  immor- 
tal glee. 

"  How  lovely,"  Mrs.  Greyson  said  eagerly.  "  I 
never  saw  this  altar  before.  Where  did  you  get  it, 
and  why  is  it  hidden  up  here  ?  " 

"  I  picked  it  up  in  Rome,  years  ago,"  Herman 
returned,  a  trifle  shamefacedly.  "  It  came  from 
somewhere  in  Greece.  Isn't  it  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  why  is  it  hidden  here  ?  "  she  repeated. 


HOW  CHANCES  MOCK.  217 

"  The  truth  is  that  when  I  was  young  and 
romantic,  I  bought  that  altar— it  is  a  Hymeneal 
altar,  they  say — and  said  I  would  pour  a  libation 
upon  it  at  my  marriage ;  a  sentimental  and 
heathenish  notion  enough." 

He  paused  a  moment,  a  certain  hesitancy 
showing  itself  more  and  more  definitely  in  his 
manner.  He  glanced  at  his  companion,  then 
looked  away  into  the  ghost  world  below.  Her 
heart  was  beating  quickly.  She  cast  down  her 
eyes,  her  hand,  the  whiter  by  contrast  with  the 
discolored  marble,  resting  upon  the  altar. 

"  When  I  left  Rome,"  he  resumed,  "  I  could  not 
quite  make  up  my  mind  to  leave  it  behind  ;  so  I 
had  it  boxed  up  and  sent  home.  It  has  been 
boxed  up  ever  since  until — until  recently." 

However  determined  Helen  might  be  to  avoid 
dangerous  topics,  she  was  yet  a  woman,  and  she 
had  in  her  heart  a  strong  yearning  towards  the 
sculptor  which  could  hardly  be  repressed.  Before 
she  had  considered  to  what  the  question  might 
lead,  she  asked : 

"  And  recently  ?  " 

"  Recently,"  re-echoed  he,  regaining  his  com- 
posure, "  I  took  it  out  and  meant  it  to  stand  down 
in  the  corner  there  to  remind  me." 

He  pointed  as  he  spoke,  down  into  the  studio 
below,  still  dim,  since  the  screens  covered  the 
large  windows.  Her  glance  followed  his  motion 
in  an  abstracted,  impersonal  way. 


2l8  THE  PAGANS. 

"  To  remind  you  ?  "  she  in  turn  echoed. 

"  To  remind  me,"  he  took  up  the  words  again, 
"  that  I  am  like  other  men,  and  that  life  is  at  best 
an  aspiration  ;  at  worst  a  despair." 

She  understood  the  intimation  of  his  words,  but 
it  seemed  not  to  touch  her.  She  did  not  flush  or 
start,  but  regarded  abstractedly  the  jocund  Cupids. 
Then  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

"  But  you  removed  it  here." 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  Our  friend  Fenton  once  said 
that  there  is  in  this  world  only  one  good,  into 
which  all  others  resolve  themselves — the  ameliora- 
tion of  life.  The  reminder,  with  all  its  suggestive- 
ness,  was  too  poignant ;  I  ameliorated  my  life  by 
putting  it  up  here  out  of  sight." 

She  did  not  question  him  further,  but,  gathering 
up  her  dress,  turned  and  went  down  the  next 
flight  of  stairs,  which  brought  her  to  a  landing 
eight  or  ten  feet  from  the  floor  of  the  studio. 
There  she  turned  again  and  looked  back  at  him 
descending.  She  almost  seemed  to  herself  not  to 
speak,  yet  by  some  inward  volition  her  lips  formed 
the  words : 

"  Hope  is  only  a  bubble,  yet  it  rims  with  rain- 
bows whatever  we  see  mirrored  in  it." 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  returned,  inquiringly. 

"  I  was  only  thinking,"  replied  she,  continuing 
her  descent,  "  that  it  is  worth  some  pains  to  keep 
the  bubble  unbroken  as  long  as  possible." 

"  But  facts  are  such  achromatic  glasses." 


HO  W  CHANCES  MOCK.  2 1 9 

To  this  she  made  no  answer,  and  together  they 
moved  towards  a  modeling  stand  upon  which 
stood  something  covered  with  wet  cloths.  These 
the  sculptor  carefully  removed, 

A  perfectly  nude  male  figure  was  disclosed,  ex- 
quisitely modeled,  and  of  superb  proportions.  It 
lay  upon  a  hillock,  about  which  fragments  of  bro- 
ken weapons  and  the  torn  ground  indicated  a  re- 
cent battle.  The  head  and  limbs  of  the  figure 
drooped  down  the  sides  of  the  mound,  falling  with 
the  limpness  of  death.  About  the  noble,  lifeless 
head  were  bent  and  broken  stalks  of  poppies,  rid- 
den down  by  the  horses,  yet  not  wholly  destroyed. 

Herman  and  Mrs.  Greyson  stood  in  silence 
looking  at  the  figure,  the  pathos  of  the  work  so 
penetrating  Helen  that  the  tears  gathered  in  her 
eyes. 

"  What  do  you  call  it  ?  "  she  asked,  struggling 
to  regain  composure. 

Her  companion  pulled  away  the  cloth,  which 
still  lay  against  the  pedestal,  and  she  saw  the 
words : 

"  I  strew  these  opiate  flowers 
R.ound  thy  restless  pillow." 

Again  she  was  silent.  Perplexity,  regret,  and, 
more  keenly  than  all,  a  delicious  exultation,  over- 
came her.  She  stole  a  half-glance  up  into  the  face 
of  the  tall  form  beside  her. 

"  But  he  is  dead,"  she  murmured  at  length. 

"  It  seems  so,"  he  assented. 


220  THE  PAGANS. 

She  turned  and  faced  him,  a  sudden  paleness 
making  her  very  lips  white. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  let  you  show  me  this,"  she 
cried,  in  a  voice  thrilling  with  emotion.  "  My 
husband  is  alive.  I  never  pretended  to  love  him, 
but  I  am  his  wife.  You  must  have  seen  him  with 
Arthur  Fenton — Dr.  Ashton." 

"  Dr.  Ashton ! "  he  echoed,  in  bewilderment. 
"  Your  husband  ?  Dr.  Ashton,  Fenton's  friend  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  she,  her  eyes  falling,  and  her 
breast  beginning  to  heave.  "  I  had  promised  not 
to  tell ;  but  it  was  not  right.  I  should  have  told 
you,  but  I  could  not  bear — Oh,"  she  cried,  break- 
ing off  her  sentence  abruptly,  "  if  you  despise  me 
it  is  only  my  due !  " 

"  Despise  you  !  As  if  it  were  possible !  But 
don't  you  know  ?  Haven't  you  been  told  ?  " 

"Know?  Been  told?"  demanded  Helen,  in 
alarm.  "What  is  it ? " 

"  Haven't  you  seen  the  morning  paper,  even  ?  " 

"  No.  What  was  in  it  ?  Has  any  thing  hap- 
pened to  Dr.  Ashton  ?  " 

"Yes,"  Herman  said  slowly,  wondering  in  a  baf- 
fled way  if  it  was  possible  to  soften  the  blow. 
"He  is  dead." 

"  Dead  ! " 

Her  cry  rang  out  sharply  in  the  dim  studio, 
over  that  clay  figure  of  a  lifeless  warrior. 

A  cry  of  horror,  of  pain,  and,  too,  of  remorse. 
There  was  in  it  nothing  of  love,  only  that  name. 


HO  W  CHA NCES  MOCK.  221 

less  fear  that  death  brings,  and  still  more  that 
groundless  self-reproach  which  sensitive  natures 
must  feel  when  confronted  by  the  irremediable — as 
if  some  blame  must  be  taken  for  the  acts  of  fate. 
Imaginative  natures  never  quite  shake  off  the  re- 
sponsibility of  the  inevitable,  and  Helen  began  in* 
stinctively  to  question  herself.  The  scene  of  the 
previous  night  came  before  her.  Ought  she  to 
have  yielded  to  the  love  which  had  called  her,  late 
aftermath  of  a  blighted  wedded  life?  At  least 
when  her  husband  spoke  of  his  suffering  she  might 

more  strongly A  sudden  thought  pierced  her 

like  a  knife. 

"  How  did  he  die  ?  "  she  questioned  breathlessly. 

"  Of  heart  disease." 

So  then  the  world  would  not  know  the  truth,  if 
what  she  feared  were  truth. 

"  I  will  go  home,"  she  said.  "  Please  tell 
Ninitta." 

When  she  reached  her  rooms  she  found  a  letter, 
addressed  in  Dr.  Ashton's  hand,  which  the  penny- 
post  had  left  for  her  after  she  had  gone  out  in  the 
morning.  It  contained  only  an  impression  in  wax 
which  resembled  a  large  seal.  With  hot  eyes  she 
bent  over  it,  making  nothing  of  its  reversed  let- 
ters. Then,  with  a  sudden  thought,  she  held  it 
before  the  glass,  seeing  in  the  mirror  the  words, 
which  read  backwards,  like  the  life  of  him  whose 
last  act  had  been  their  forming : 

"  DEATH  FOILS  THE  GODS." 


XXXI. 

HE  SPEAKS  THE  MERE  CONTRARY. 

Love's  Labor's  Lost  ;  i. — I. 

JUDITH,"  Arthur  Fenton  said,  looking  up 
.L/  from  his  paper  at  breakfast  that  morning, 
u  Dr.  Ashton  is  dead." 

"  Dead  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Her  husband's  indifferent  tone  shocked  her.  She 
was  not  without  an  unphrased  feeling  that  death 
was  so  sacred  or  at  least  so  solemn  a  subject  that 
it  should  be  treated  with  reverence.  Any  jesting 
upon  it  made  her  cringe,  and  the  light  mention  of 
it  seemed  to  her  almost  immoral. 

"  So  the  paper  says,"  replied  he  ;  and  he  read 
aloud  the  paragraph  containing  the  announce- 
ment of  Dr.  Ashton's  sudden  death  from  heart 
disease.  "  It  is  too  bad,"  he  commented.  "  He 
was  a  mighty  smart  fellow  and  square  as  a  brick. 
I  wonder  what  made  him  do  it  now." 

"  Made  him  do  what  ? "  she  asked.  "  How 
strangely  you  talk.  Made  him  die?" 

"  Yes  ;  that's  what  I  meant.  I  knew  he  had  a 
trouble  which  would  probably  make  him  do  it 
sooner  or  later,  but  I'd  no  idea  it  would  come  so 
soon." 


HE  SPEAKS  THE  MERE  CONTRARY.        223 

"  Arthur,  what  do  you  mean,"  Edith  repeated, 
the  tears  coming  into  her  eyes.  "  I  don't  like  to 
hear  you  speak  of  death  so — so — flippantly." 

"  Flippantly,  my  dear  ?  "  returned  he.  "  I'm  sure 
I  don't  know  why  you  should  use  that  word.  If 
a  man  takes  his  life,  why  shouldn't  I  speak  of  it, — 
to  you,  that  is ;  of  course  I  should  not  in 
public." 

"  Takes  his  life !  "  she  cried.  "  Do  you  mean — " 

"  Of  course  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  her  hus- 
band replied  as  coolly  as  ever,  and  watching 
sharply  the  effect  of  his  words  ;  "  but  I  presume 
Will  took  poison,  poor  old  fellow." 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  white  and  trembling. 

"  It  is  what  might  have  been  expected,"  she 
said.  "  It  almost  seems  as  if  Providence  measured 
to  him  the  portion  of  poor  Frontier." 

"  Providence  is  noted  for  close  observance  of  the 
lex  talionis"  sneered  Arthur,  "  but  Dr.  Ashton 
didn't  believe  in  the  existence  of  that  functionary, 
so  it  really  ought  to  have  passed  him  by.  It 
would  certainly  have  been  more  dignified." 

"  But,  oh !  "  she  cried  out,  apparently  not  hear- 
ing or  not  heeding  his  last  words,  "  into  what  sort 
of  a  world  have  you  brought  me,  Arthur  ?  Are  all 
your  friends  so  desperate  that  they  think  only  of 
taking  their  own  lives  ?  Have  they  no  faith,  no 
hope,  no  beyond  ?  I  feel  as  if  it  were  all  a  dread- 
ful nightmare !  It  cannot  be  you  alone,  for  Mrs. 
Greyson  and  Dr.  Ashton —  Oh,  Arthur,  where 


224  THE  PAGANS. 

has  religion,  where  has  morality  gone  ?  Oh,  I 
cannot  understand  it !  I  cannot  bear  it !  " 

She  laid  her  bowed  head  on  her  arms  upon  the 
pretty  breakfast  table,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart 
would  break.  Her  husband  looked  at  her  with 
intense  irritation,  and  an  inward  curse  that  he  had 
ever  married  her.  He  sipped  his  coffee  ;  he  noted 
with  admiration  the  rich,  glowing  hues  of  the  dull 
blue  bowl  of  nasturtiums  which  adorned  the  table. 

"  There,  Edith,"  he  said  at  length,  "  it  is  rather 
idle  to  cry  over  the  sins  of  your  neighbors.  Ac- 
cording to  your  creed  each  of  us  has  enough  of 
his  own  derelictions  to  answer  for,  without  going 
abroad  for  things  to  repent.  As  for  religion,  I 
suppose  girls  who  do  Kensington  work  will  use  it 
for  decorative  purposes  for  some  time  to  come, 
but  thinking  people  long  ago  outgrew  such 
folly.  In  regard  to  my  friends,  it  is  all  a 
question  of  standards,  as  I've  said  no  end 
of  times.  From  my  point  of  view  they  are 
very  sensible  people,  and  you  a  little  bigot. 
Grant  Herman  believes  some  pious  nonsense, 
though  he  has  too  good  taste  to  obtrude  it, 
and  I  dare  say  Bently  and  Rangely  have  their  su- 
perstitions. There  are  probably  ten  thousand 
people  in  this  good  city  of  Boston — and  for  aught 
I  know  a  hundred  thousand — who  believe,  or,  if 
you  like,  disbelieve,  as  I  do." 

"  It  cannot  be  true,"  was  Edith's  reply.  "  But 
if  it  is  so,  it  is  too  sad  to  think  of." 


HE  SPEAKS  THE  MERE  CONTRARY.         225 

"  Why,  I  suspect,"  Arthur  continued  lightly, 
"  that  the  Pagans  regard  me  as  too  ortho- 
dox lately,  though  you'd  hardly  agree  with 
them." 

She  made  no  reply,  and  Arthur  continued  his 
breakfast  in  silence.  The  sun  shone  in  at  the 
windows,  the  soft  coal  fire  sputtered  in  the  grate, 
and  to  all  appearance  the  room  was  full  of  cheer- 
fulness. Edith  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand 
and  reflected  sadly.  She  resolved  that  her  hus- 
band should  be  weaned  from  the  Pagans,  if  that 
were  within  her  power.  She  seemed  to  herself  to 
relinquish  joy  in  life,  and  to  devote  herself  wholly 
to  duty. 

The  entrance  of  a  servant  with  the  morning  let- 
ters interrupted  further  conversation,  until  Arthur 
tossed  his  wife  a  letter  which  Dr.  Ashton  had 
mailed  at  the  same  time  he  posted  the  missive 
which  Helen  received  later  in  the  day. 

"  There,  you  see,"  Fenton  remarked.  "  Of 
course  I  show  it  to  you  in  confidence." 

The  room  swam  before  Edith  as  she  read,  but 
she  forced  herself  to  be  outwardly  calm,  as  she  ran 
her  eye  over  this  note  : 

DEAR  ARTHUR  :  — 

I've  a  strong  presentiment — and  although  I  disbelieve  in  presentiments, 
mine  generally  come  true — that  in  about  half  an  hour  my  obituary  will  be  in 
order.  Certain  easily  foreseen  contingencies  have  determined  me  to  give  it 
up.  I  shall  never  have  a  better  chance  to  make  my  exit  dramatically, 
and  you've  often  assured  me  that  that  is  the  chief  thing  to  consider 
in  this  connection.  I've  contemplated  such  a  possibility  long  enough  to 
have  my  affairs  in  order,  and  doubtless  your  wife  will  have  a  mass  or  two  said 
for  the  repose  of  my  soul .  If  you  ever  have  a  chance  to  do  Helen  a  good  turn. 


226  THE  PAGANS. 

you  may  regard  it  as  a  personal  favor  to  my  ghost  to  do  it.     I've  left  you  my 
Diaz  as  a  sort  of  propitiatory  sop.  Yours,  of  course,  as  ever, 

W.  A. 

"  Oh,  Arthur,  Arthur  ! "  Edith  sobbed,  breaking 
down  again.  "  It  is  awful !  It  is  just  as  he  always 
talked.  It  is  as  light  as  if  he  were  going  out  to 
drive." 

"  Naturally,"  was  the  response.  "  If  you  fancy 
Will  would  cry  baby  at  death,  you  knew  him  far 
from  as  well  as  I  did.  How  strange  it  is  to  think 
of  his  being  in  the  past  tense,  poor  fellow.  It  was 
clever  of  him  to  leave  me  his  Diaz  ;  I  always 
coveted  it." 

In  the  face  of  this,  what  was  there  for  Edith  to 
say.  She  was  simply  numbed  to  silence,  and  hor- 
ror at  her  husband  for  the  time  deadened  all  sense 
of  the  shock  of  Dr.  Ashton's  death.  It  was  not 
until  later  in  the  day  that  she  was  able  to  think 
of  Helen. 

"  But,  Arthur,"  she  said  then,  "  Mrs.  Grey- 
son?" 

"  Well ;  what  of  Mrs.  Greyson  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  see  her." 

"  After  your  last  night's  indignation  ?  " 

"  I  may  have  been  wrong,"  Mrs.  Fenton  said 
bravely.  "  I  may  have  been  hard.  I  realize  every 
day  how  little  I  am  able  to  judge  for  other  people. 
Perhaps  I  am  narrow,  as  you  say.  At  least  now 
her  husband  is  dead  I  can  show  her  my  sympathy ; 
and  since  I  know  more  of  him,  it  does  not  seem 
so  strange  that  she  left  him." 


HE  SPEAKS  THE  MERE  CONTRARY.          227 

"  They  left  each  other,"  he  responded  to  these 
contradictory  words.  "  But  what  can  you  say  ? 
The  consolations  of  religion  will  hardly  be  availa- 
ble, and  Helen  never  pretended  to  love  Ashton  ?  " 

His  tone  wounded  her,  but  she  answered  with- 
out a  change  of  countenance : 

"  The  death  of  the  man  who  has  been  her  hus- 
band can  never  be  indifferent  to  any  true  woman. 
I  shall  not  force  her  to  listen  to  any  religion  she 
does  not  wish  to  hear." 


XXXII. 

A  SYMPATHY  OF  WOE. 

Titus  Andronicus  ;  iii. — I. 

T  AM  afraid  you  will  think  me  intrusive,"  was 

1  Edith's  hesitating  greeting  to  Helen,  "  but  I 
could  not  help  coming.  I  thought  you  might 
feel  lonely." 

Helen  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  with  wistful 
eyes  and  trembling  lips  :  then  she  crossed  swiftly 
to  where  her  friend  stood  and  kissed  her.  And 
never  could  these  two  be  so  wholly  separated  or 
estranged  again  as  to  efface  the  memory  of  all  the 
meaning  that  this  caress  conveyed.  The  word 
which  Edith  had  used  had  been  most  happily 
chosen.  Herwoman's  instinct  divined  the  loneli- 
ness which  overwhelmed  the  widow,  and  this  proof 
of  her  sympathy  was  the  passport  to  Mrs.  Grey- 
son's  heart.  Loneliness  was  the  feeling  of  which 
Helen  was  most  of  all  conscious.  The  death  of 
even  an  indifferent  acquaintance  often  may  seem 
to  desolate  the  earth  from  its  simple  irremediable- 
ness,  and  much  more  d&es  the  removal  of  one  near 
to  us  make  the  world  appear  half  a  void. 

Helen  had  been  sitting  alone  before  Edith  came, 
reviewing  her  past  and  drearily  speculating  of  her 


A  SYMPATHY  OF  WOE.  229 

• 

future.  She  went  over  the  days  of  her  wedded 
life;  her  innocent,  introspective  childhood,  in 
which  she  had  dreamed  and  read,  dwelling  in  a 
world  apart ;  alone  but  for  the  ideal  creations  of 
her  books  or  her  own  quick  fancy.  She  had  mar- 
ried knowing  as  little  of  life  or  of  love,  as  when,  a 
lonely  child,  she  had  spelled  out  the  tale  of  Prince 
Camaralzaman,  and  wondered  what  the  divine 
passion  really  was,  or  if  indeed  it  had  existence, 
outside  of  fairy  lore. 

The  torch  of  death  throws  its  glare  backward, 
and  its  funeral  light  showed  many  a  past  long 
since  forgotten,  but  now  revealed  with  new 
and  distorting  vividness.  Helen  remembered 
the  baby  which  had  lived  but  long  enough 
to  open  its  eyes  with  a  smile  that  seemed 
of  recognition,  and  then  faded  back  into  the 
unknown  whence  it  had  come.  A  throb  of  ten- 
derness for  the  dead  father  moved  the  mother's 
heart  as  she  thought  of  her  baby,  so  little 
time  hers,  and  so  long  asleep  under  the  marguer- 
ites of  a  grave  over  the  sea.  She  had  suffered 
much  from  the  selfishness,  the  dominant  self-will, 
the  distorted  views  of  life  of  Dr.  Ashton;  and 
these  things  che  even  now  could  not  forget ;  but, 
too,  she  thought  of  him  as  the  father  of  her  child, 
her  baby  ever  dear  and  living  in  memory. 

She  reflected,  too,  of  the  men  she  had  known, 
and  especially  of  Arthur  Fenton.  Her  nature  had 
need  of  some  one  upon  whom  to  expend  its  treas- 


230  THE    PAGANS. 

ures,  and  she  realized  that  had  she  not  felt  in  the 
artist  a  certain  insincerity,  he  might  have  awak- 
ened her  love.  He  had  been  appreciative,  sym- 
pathetic, brilliant ;  and,  too,  he  had  called  largely 
upon  her  patience  and  forbearance,  than  which 
there  is  no  surer  way  to  win  a  generous  woman's 
affection.  Yet  always  some  note  rang  false  to 
her  fine  ear,  and  to  the  weakness  of  his  nature  she 
had  never  been  wholly  blind,  although  not  until 
his  marriage  had  given  him  a  certain  distance  had 
she  realized  how  deep  and  unsparing  her  knowl- 
edge of  him  really  was. 

Of  Grant  Herman  she  would  not  think. 
Thoughts  of  him  arose  again  and  again  in  her 
mind,  but  she  resolutely  put  them  down.  Some 
secret  stir  of  mingled  pain  and  joy  told  her  too 
well  that  the  sculptor  had  awakened  the  first  love 
of  her  life.  But  at  least  with  her  husband,  how 
ever  unloved,  lying  yet  unburied,  she  would  not 
dwell  upon  the  passion  of  another. 

She  took  Edith's  hand,  and  the  two  women  sat 
down  side  by  side,  shedding  tears  together,  rathef 
from  a  sense  of  the  general  woe  and  bitterness  o{ 
life  than  for  poignant  grief  for  the  present  calam- 
ity. It  was  not  much  they  said  at  first.  Neither 
was  of  the  talkative  order  of  women,  finding  com- 
fort in  the  mere  utterance  of  words.  They  grew 
together,  sustained  by  giving  and  receiving  ten- 
derness, and  each  tacitly  asking  and  according  for- 
giveness for  unfriendly  feelings  in  the  past.  It  is 


A  SYMPATHY  OF  WOE.  231 

probable,  too,  that  Edith,  heavy  with  the  disap. 
pointments  of  her  married  life,  found  relief  in  be- 
ing able  to  weep  unrestrainedly,  even  though  the 
true  source  of  her  tears  was  not  the  obvious  one. 

"  I  never  loved  him,"  Helen  said  of  her  hus- 
band. "  After  we  separated  we  became  friends, 
rather  because  of  a  common  past  when  we  were 
both  strangers  here,  than  from  any  fitness  for 
each  other.  But  he  was  once  my  husband." 

Her  friend  pressed  her  hand  in  silence. 

"  We  had  a  child,"  Helen  zpoke again;  "a little 
daughter.  She  only  lived  one  day.  If  she  had 
not  gone  it  might  have  been  different.  At  least 
we  should  have  kept  on  together.  My  poor  little 
baby ! " 

Edith's  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  as  she  answered 
softly : 

"  I  hope  you  will  let  me  say  that  I  believe  she 
is  waiting  for  you  some  where." 

"  She  must  be,"  the  mother  responded  quickly. 
"  Whatever  one  doubts,  one  must  surely  believe 
that.  I  could  not  lose  her  !  She  is  mine,  wher- 
ever in  the  universe  she  may  be." 

"  Yes,"  was  all  Edith  ventured  in  reply.  "  I  am 
sure  of  it." 

They  gave  no  heed  to  the  fading  day,  but  sat 
with  clasped  hands  until  twilight  had  gathered, 
and  it  occurred  at  last  to  Mrs.  Fenton  that  her 
husband  and  dinner  must  be  awaiting  her.  Helen 
had  been  telling  of  her  plans. 


232  THE  PAGANS. 

"  I  shall  go  abroad,"  she  said,  "  I  want  to  study 
in  Rome ;  I  want  to  meet  great  men  ;  to  be  influ- 
enced by  great  works.  I  have  been  thinking  of  it 
for  a  long  time,  and  now  it  seems  as  if  some  ties 
that  held  me  here  are  broken,  for  we  often  obey 
claims  which  we  yet  deny.  And  besides,"  she 
added,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  it  is  a  flight  from  tempta- 
tion. I  am  in  danger  here." 

"  In  danger?"  Edith  asked  wonderingly. 

"  Only  from  myself,"  was  the  reply,  "  but  that 
peril  is  sufficiently  imminent  to  make  me  afraid." 

Edith  questioned  no  further,  and  to  the  true 
import  of  these  words  she  had  no  clue.  She 
looked  at  her  friend  a  moment  inquiringly  and 
musingly,  but  as  Helen  did  not  continue,  she  rose 
to  go. 

"  I  must  get  home  now,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  so 
tender  that  it  seemed  to  beg  pardon  for  this  aban- 
donment. "  Arthur  is  waiting  for  me  and  his  din- 
ner ;  and  if  he  doesn't  get  the  latter  at  least,  I 
won't  answer  for  the  consequences.  Mr.  Calvin 
was  with  him  when  I  came  away." 

"  Mr.  Peter  Calvin !  "  exclaimed  the  other,  in 
some  surprise. 

"Yes;  he  has  bought  one  of  Arthur's  pictures, 
and  he  wants  Arthur  to  propose  him  at  the  St. 
Filipe  Club,  I  believe." 

She  spoke  in  perfect  ignorance  of  the  tu- 
mult her  words  excited  in  her  hearer's  mind. 
Long  after  Edith  was  gone  Helen  sat  looking 


A  SYMPATHY  OF  WOE.  233 

out  into  the  darkening  sky  and  thinking  of  Arthur 
Fenton.  She  had  heard  him  talk  too  often  about 
Mr.  Peter  Calvin  not  to  know  what  was  implied 
by  this  new  friendship.  Mr.  Peter  Calvin  had 
been  for  years  the  head  and  front  of  Boston  Phi- 
listinism in  art.  He  had  been  the  patron  of  sub- 
servient artists  ;  the  chairman  of  committees  for 
the  purchase  of  public  statues  ;  an  elegant  writer 
upon  such  live  and  timely  topics  as  Plaster  Casting 
among  tJie  Egyptians,  Notes  upon  Abyssinian 
Statues,  while  his  monograph  upon  the  question, 
What  Was  the  Original  Cost  of  the  Venus de  Milo? 
had  by  his  flatterers  been  pronounced  the  master- 
piece of  all  known  art  essays  for  power  and  critical 
research.  His  was  a  prominent  name  upon  the 
covers  of  dilettante  art  journals  ;  it  was  he  who 
effectually  crushed  young  and  too  daringly  inde- 
pendent artists  ;  who  repressed  impertinent  origi- 
nality; who  headed  the  hosts  of  conventionality 
against  individuality  or  genius  which  held  itself 
above  the  established  canons  of  antiquated  tradi- 
tion. He  was  the  High  Priest  of  Boston  conser- 
vatism ;  the  presiding  genius  of  Philistia ;  and 
until  the  St.  Filipe  Club  entered  a  protest  against 
him  by  refusing  to  admit  him  to  membership,  his 
power  had  scarcely  received  a  blow. 

Tom  Bently  always  insisted,  with  much  pro- 
fanity, that  Mr.  Peter  Calvin  was  a  joke. 

"  He  writes  with  tremendous  pomposity,"  Tom 
would  say,  "  and  he  is  in  no  end  of  societies  for 


234  THE  PAGANS. 

molly-coddling  art.  He  goes  on,  too,  about  the 
plaster  casts  at  that  hospital  for  decrepit  gods,  the 
Art  Museum,  as  if  his  whole  soul  was  in  the  plas- 
ter barrels  of  the  Gi  eeks.  But  bless  your  soul !  It's 
only  his  little  joke.  He  doesn't  really  mean  any 
thing  by  it.  He's  only  a  stupendous  joke  himself." 
The  Pagans,  so  far  as  they  were  to  be  regarded 
as  an  entity,  represented  the  protest  of  the  artistic 
soul  against  shams.  They  stood  for  sincerity 
above  every  thing;  for  utter  honesty  in  art,  in 
life,  in  manners  and  morals  alike.  To  them 
Philistinism  was  the  substitution  of  convention 
for  conviction.  For  the  spirit  of  imitation,  of 
blind  subservience  to  authority,  the  Pagans  had 
no  tolerance.  While  they  held  themselves  always 
open  to  conviction,  they  refused  assent  to  any 
thing  which  was  offered  them  ex  cathedra;  they 
devoted  themselves  to  art  with  a  passion  of 
enthusiasm  which  was  in  itself  the  highest  ex- 
pression of  their  principles.  That  they  seemed 
often  iconoclastic  was  in  reality  less  the  result  of 
their  hatred  of  authority  than  the  prevalence  of 
unreasoning,  and  therefore  by  their  standards 
necessarily  insincere,  adherence  to  established 
formulae.  Dogmas  they  hated,  not  because  they 
were  popularly  received,  but  because  although  they 
had  been  vital  realities  to  their  originators,  they 
had  become  in  time  mere  lifeless  forms,  held  in 
reverence  by  blind  devotees  long  after  the  soul 
had  gone  out  of  them. 


A  SYMPATHY  OF  WOE.  235 

In  art  especially  the  Pagans  demanded  the 
most  absolute  surrender  of  self  to  truth  ;  and  it 
should  be  added  that  they  defined  truth  exactly 
as  Helen  did,  "  that  which  one  sincerely  be- 
lieves." They  had  no  condemnation  too  severe 
or  sweeping  for  the  artist  who  worshipped  the 
golden  gods  of  Philistia  by  following  popular 
conventions  at  the  expense  of  his  honest  art 
ideals.  It  is  not  impossible  that  they  carried  this 
feeling  to  extremes  sometimes,  suspecting  every 
thing  which  was  stamped  with  popular  approval, 
but  in  the  main  at  least  their  standard  was  of  the 
highest  and  their  lives  conformed  well  to  it. 
Measured  by  the  creeds  they  rejected,  they  might 
often  enough  be  found  wanting ;  tried  by  their 
own,  there  had  never  been  an  apostate  among 
them  until  the  defection  of  Fenton. 

No  one  had  been  more  bitter  and  outspoken  in 
his  condemnation  of  Mr.  Calvin  and  of  what  he 
represented  than  Arthur  Fenton.  Many  a  time 
he  had  entertained  Helen  with  stories  of  the  pre- 
sumption and  the  ignorance  of  this  man  whom 
now  he  was  receiving  into  his  friendship,  or,  more 
properly,  in  whose  train  of  sycophants  he  had 
taken  his  place. 

Helen  could  not  forgive  him.  Leaving  dinner 
untasted,  she  sat  with  burning  cheeks  in  the  dark- 
ness, mourning  over  the  apostacy  of  the  man  who 
had  been  her  warmest  friend. 


XXXIII. 

A  MINT  OF  PHRASES  IN  HIS  BRAIN. 

Love's  Labor's  Lost  ;  i. — I. 

DR.  ASHTON  had  been  in  his  grave  several 
weeks.  Life  had  gone  on  much  as  usual  in 
Boston,  with  the  bickerings  of  small  souls,  the 
gaping  imitations  of  the  mob,  the  carping  of  the 
self-appointed  critics,  and  the  earnest  endeavor  of 
the  honest  and  inspired  workers,  who  leaven  the 
lump  of  modern  civilization. 

Among  the  Pagans  the  nomination  of  Mr.  Cal- 
vin to  the  St.  Filipe  Club  by  Arthur  Fenton  had 
been  received  with  a  bitterness  born  of  a  feeling 
of  outraged  confidence.  They  were  to-night  to 
meet  in  Tom  Bently's  studio,  and  Fenton,  who 
had  no  intention  of  being  present,  was  yet  keenly 
conscious  of  what  the  talk  there  concerning  him 
would  be.  He  was  glum  and  moody  at  dinner, 
and  Edith,  who  knew  that  this  was  Pagan  night, 
watched  him  wistfully.  She  hoped  to  win  him 
away  from  friends  and  acquaintances  who  seemed 
to  her  dangerous.  Perfectly  honest  and  ready  to 
lay  down  her  life  for  her  husband,  she  was  yet 
urging  him  into  paths  which  he  felt  it  to  be  deg- 
radation to  walk,  since  they  led  him  away  from 


A  MINT  OF  PHRASES  IN  HIS  BRAIN.         237 

sincerity.  She  had  no  means  of  knowing  how  his 
sudden  championship  of  Mr.  Calvin  was  regarded. 
Her  own  relations  to  art  had  been  those  of  pretty 
amateurishness.  She  had  been  bred  to  believe 
in  conventionality,  and  the  flavor  of  Bohemianism 
alarmed  and  repelled  her. 

To-night  she  had  put  on  her  most  becoming 
dress,  she  had  ordered  the  dinner  with  especial 
reference  to  her  husband's  tastes,  and  she  exerted 
herself  to  be  as  entertaining  and  attractive  as  lay 
in  her  power.  She  even  allowed  herself  the  inno- 
cent ruse  of  delaying  dinner  a  little,  that  it  might 
be  later  before  Arthur  could  be  ready  to  go  out ; 
and  when  the  answer  to  her  timid  hope  that  he 
was  to  be  at  home  that  evening,  was  in  the  affirma- 
tive, her  foolish,  tender  heart  fluttered  with  de- 
lighted hope  that  she  was  influencing  him  to  shake 
off  his  irregular  associations. 

He  was  rather  gloomy  and  silent  all  the  even- 
ing, brooding  of  the  Pagans,  from  whose  meetings 
he  had  never  before  been  absent,  and  of  Helen, 
and  what  she  would  think.  Edith  tried  all  her 
arts  and  wiles  to  make  him  forget  the  pleasure  he 
was  losing,  and  she  partly  succeeded,  since  her  at- 
tentions and  endearments  chimed  in  with  the  train 
of  thought  by  which  he  was  endeavoring  to  prove 
to  his  own  satisfaction  that  he  was  the  most  virtu- 
ous of  men,  and  that  his  swearing  allegiance  to 
Philistinism,  was  a  noble  example  of  a  transgres- 
sor willing  to  confess  and  abjure  his  faults.  He 


238  THE  PAGANS. 

accepted  his  wife's  attentions  as  eminently  fitting 
under  the  circumstances,  and  could  he  have  for- 
gotten the  Pagans  and  Helen,  he  might  almost 
have  been  comfortable.  More  than  once  in  the 
old  days  he  had  found  it  hard  to  face  Mrs.  Grey- 
son's  clear  eyes,  which  saw  so  readily  through 
shams,  and  now  while  he  was  able  to  work  himself 
into  a  defensive  attitude  towards  all  others  of  his 
old  friends,  he  felt  a  horrible  humiliation  in 
the  consciousness  that  Helen  was  sure  to  know 
of  his  course  and  to  understand  all  its  weak- 
ness. 

It  occurred  to  him,  too,  that  Helen  had  avoided 
him  of  late.  Since  the  death  of  Dr.  Ashton,  he 
had  scarcely  seen  her,  although  she  was  often  with 
his  wife.  He  knew  from  Edith  that  she  was  soon 
to  go  abroad,  and  he  wondered  if  the  wish  to 
escape  him  had  any  share  in  bringing  her  to  this 
decision. 

He  tormented  himself  with  speculations  and 
memories  until  he  could  endure  it  no  longer.  He 
must  have  comfort ;  his  wounded  self-sufficiency 
craved  the  balm  of  approval,  and  although  he 
was  contemptuously  conscious  of  his  own  weak- 
ness, he  turned  to  Edith  to  seek  admiration  and 
praise. 

"  So  you  are  glad  that  I  am  not  going  to  the 
Pagans  to-night,"  he  said  to  her,  as  they  sat  before 
the  fire,  for  the  evening  was  damp  and  chilly. 

"  Very  glad,"  she  answered,  leaving  her  chair  to 


A  MINT  OF  PHRASES  IN  HIS  BRAIN.         239 

come  and  sit  upon  a  low  hassock  by  his  knee. 
"  It  was  so  good  of  you." 

She  made  a  beautiful  picture  as  she  sat  there, 
her  long  dress  of  cardinal  and  stone  gray  silk 
gathered  in  waves  about  her,  the  Elizabethan 
ruffle  setting  off  her  shapely  head  and  slender 
neck,  while  the  soft,  yellow  old  lace  showed  how 
clear  was  the  tone  of  her  skin.  Her  pure,  sweet 
face,  with  its  appealing  dark  eyes,  was  turned  up- 
ward to  her  husband's,  in  an  expression  at  once 
wistful  and  full  of  love.  Edith  had  always  a  high- 
bred air,  and  to-night  her  attitude  and  expression 
added  the  one  charm  of  warmth  and  softness 
needed  to  make  her  most  lovely  and  moving. 

"  You  doubtless  have  some  excellent  reason," 
remarked  Arthur  smiling  down  on  her. 

"  I  am  afraid  of  them  ;  they  are  in  arms  against 
every  thing  that  is  acknowledged  to  be  good." 

"  And  yet  they  are  the  most  honest  men  I  ever 
knew,"  he  returned,  half  musing,  and  with  a  little 
pleased  sense  of  his  magnanimity  in  saying  this  at 
a  moment  when  they  were  probably  abusing  him. 

"  I  don't  know,  Arthur.  Perhaps  they  may  be 
honest,  but  I  am  sure  it  is  not  good  for  you  to  be 
with  them.  They  are  so  sure  that  their  false 
views  of  life  are  true." 

The  little  sting  in  the  implication  that  he  was 
not  able  to  resist  the  influence  which  had  sur- 
rounded him  was  forgotten  in  the  satisfactory 
view  which  his  wife  took  of  the  real  value  of  the 


240  THE  PAGAXS. 

judgments  of  the  Pagans.  He  knew  how  little 
she  understood  them.  With  every  premise  upon 
which  her  conclusions  were  founded  he  disagreed, 
yet  he  said  to  himself  that  Edith  was  right ;  that 
the  Pagans  were  quite  too  infallible  about  every 
thing.  They  would  have  him  grope  along  poor 
and  unknown,  he  argued  with  himself,  simply  for 
the  sake  of  standing  in  the  position  of  chronic 
rebuke  to  established  authorities  ;  with  only  now 
and  then  a  chance  to  get  a  hearing  upon  what 
they  assumed  to  be  the  true  theory  of  art.  What 
they  believed — ah  !  there  after  all  was  the  weak- 
ness of  the  whole.  What  ground  had  they  for 
their  belief  ?  Did  he  himself  really  believe  any 
thing,  or  had  he  a  right  to  assert  in  any  matter  a 
positive  conviction  ?  And  even  if  they  or  he 
asserted  never  so  strongly,  what  sort  of  a  test  of 
truth  was  that?  After  all  the  Philistines,  the 
Calvins,  were  as  likely  to  be  right  as  were  a  set 
of  discontented  if  not  disappointed  artists  ;  men 
whose  natures  would  never  allow  them  to  be  satis- 
fied with  any  existing  state  of  things,  since  it 
would  inevitably  differ  from  their  dreamy  ideals. 
And  it  was  certainly  true  that  the  weight  of 
authority  and  of  numbers  was  with  the  Philis- 
tines. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,  Edith,"  he  said  aloud. 
"  I  hope  so  at  least,  for  they  are  probably  indig- 
nant enough  with  me." 

"With  you?     Why?" 


A  MINT  OF  PHRASES  IN  HIS  BRAIN.        241 

"  Oh,  they  choose  to  think  I  went  over  to 
Philistia  when  I  proposed  Mr.  Calvin  for  the  St. 
Filipe.  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  I  haven't  a  right 
to  propose  whom  I  please." 

"But  Mr.  Calvin,  Arthur,"  responded  Edith, 
who  regarded  that  gentleman  as  one  of  the  art 
gods  of  Boston.  "  I  should  think  any  body 
would  be  proud  to  propose  him.  Why,  he  is  one 
of  the  most  distinguished  men  in  the  city." 

Her  husband  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  He 
looked  into  the  fire  and  watched  his  inner  con- 
sciousness adapt  itself  to  this  view  of  the  case, 
which  than  himself  no  one  had  condemned  more 
bitterly.  Yet  it  was  the  theory  upon  which  it 
was  necessary  to  rest  did  he  expect  to  arrive  at 
any  comfort  in  the  course  of  supporting  Mr.  Cal- 
vin, which  he  had  already  pursued  so  far  that 
retreat  was  impossible.  Yes,  he  assured  himself, 
he  could  even  accept  this.  And  why  not  ?  Did 
not  common  opinion  confirm  it ;  and  however 
much  common  opinion  might  be  sneered  at,  it  was 
surely  the  voice  of  the  common  sense  of  the 
•world. 

He  looked  down  at  his  wife,  who  looked  back 
smiling  proudly.  He  realized  how  pure,  how  ten- 
der, how  true  she  was.  He  knew,  too,  that  she 
was  daily  and  hourly  weaving  about  him  bands 
which  held  him  captive  to  beliefs  which  though 
true  to  her  were  the  veriest  falsehoods  to  him  ; 
and  that  only  his  love  of  ease,  his  fatal  complai- 


242  THE  PAGANS. 

sance,  prevented  his  rending  these  cords  as  did 
Samson  the  new  ropes  of  the  Philistines.  He 
realized  that  he  was  sacrificing  his  manhood,  that 
he  was  bartering  his  convictions  for  flattery  and 
ease  by  allying  himself  to  Calvin  and  his  follow- 
ing. He  recalled  Helen's  remark  that  what  is 
called  being  honest  with  one's  self  is  often  the 
subtlest  form  of  hypocrisy,  and  he  did  not  spare 
himself  a  single  pang  of  self-humiliation  and  con- 
tempt ;  and  then,  when  he  was  full  to  the  throat 
with  self-loathing,  he  let  his  sensuous,  self-loving 
nature  devise  excuse  and  soothe  his  wounded 
vanity. 

He  looked  into  the  fire  with  a  smile  of 
mingled  bitterness  and  complacency,  half  ashamed, 
half  amused  at  the  view  which  introspection  gave 
him. 

But  whenever  into  his  musings  came  the 
thought  of  Helen  it  rankled  like  a  poisoned  barb. 
For  he  secretly  believed  that  Helen  loved  him, 
and  although  if  a  man  humiliates  himself  in  the 
eyes  of  the  woman  he  loves  it  is  as  bitter  as 
death ;  yet  to  prove  unworthy  in  the  sight  of  her 
who  hopelessly  loves  him,  contains  a  more  subtly 
envenomed  shaft,  which  wounds  that  most  sensi- 
tive spot  in  a  sensuous  man's  nature — his  vanity. 


XXXIV. 

HEART-BURNING   HEAT   OF  DUTY. 

Love's  Labor's  Lost  ;  i. — I. 

'T^HAT  evening  Helen  too  sat  at  home,  alone 
1  and  full  of  resistless  thoughts. 

She  had  put  the  finishing  touches  to  the  Flight 
of  the  Months,  completing  the  work  with  scarcely 
less  success  than  at  first,  and  in  three  days  she 
was  to  sail  for  Europe.  She  had  not  allowed  Dr. 
Ashton's  death  to  interrupt  her  work,  the  neces- 
sity of  avoiding  unpleasant  gossip  which  would 
be  provoked  by  the  disclosure  of  her  relations 
with  the  dead  man,  being  sufficient  reason  why 
she  should  not  change  her  outward  life.  She 
quietly  and  rapidly  completed  the  preparations 
for  departure,  and  already  the  feeling  of  severance 
from  familiar  scenes  cast  its  sadness  over  her. 

Leaving  the  studio  to-day,  she  had  gone  down 
to  speak  with  Herman,  whom  she  wished  to  take 
the  responsibility  of  the  firing  of  the  bas-relief. 
When  she  had  finished  this  errand  she  turned  to  a 
figure  in  terra-cotta  whose  freshness  showed  that 
it  had  but  recently  come  from  the  kiln. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  she  asked,  "  I  have  never 
seen  it." 


244  THE  PAGANS. 

"  It  is  a  Pasht,"  the  sculptor  returned.  "  I 
modeled  it  as  a  wedding  present  for  Arthur  Fen- 
ton,  but  luckily  I  did  not  get  it  done  in  time." 

"Why  '  luckily?'" 

"  Because  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  given  him 
any  thing  so  closely  connected  with  the  Pagans,  as 
things  have  turned  out." 

Helen  did  not  need  to  ask  explanations  of  these 
words,  although  she  did  not  know  how  complete 
the  breach  between  Fenton  and  his  former  friends 
had  become. 

"  I  am  glad  I  am  going  away,"  she  exclaimed 
with  a  sigh. 

"Going  away?"  he  echoed,  dropping  his  model- 
ing tools. 

"Yes,  I  sail  Saturday." 

She  spoke  with  perfect  composure,  yet  her 
glance  was  averted.  She  was  painfully  conscious 
of  having  concealed  the  fact  from  him  until  this 
moment. 

He  came  towards  her,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
face. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  he  demanded,  almost 
fiercely.  "  Why  do  you  go  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  study  in  Rome,"  she  replied  faintly. 
"  I  always  told  you  that  I  hoped  to  go  some  day." 

"  But  why  do  you  go  now  ?  Why  have  you 
concealed  it  from  me  ?  Are  you  afraid  of  my — • 
of  my  love?  If  any  one  must  go  it  should  be  I ; 
I  have  no  right  to  drive  you  away." 


HEART-BURNING  HEA  T  OF  DUTY.  24$ 

"You  are  not  driving  me  away;  I — it  is  better 
that  I  should  go." 

"  But  why  go  now  ?  Now  you  are  free,  and  I 
have  a  right  to  claim  you." 

"  No,"  Helen  said  in  a  voice  suddenly  firm,  but 
which  yet  showed  her  inward  agitation,  "  no  ;  there 
is  Ninitta.  I  have  suffered  too  much  myself  to 
be  willing  to  try  to  come  to  happiness  over 
any  woman's  heart.  It  is  better  that  I  should 

go." 

"  Ninitta !  "  Herman  burst  out.  "  She  has  no 
claim  ;  she  will  not  even  care ;  she — " 

"  No,"  interrupted  Helen,  laying  her  hand  upon 
his  arm.  "  You  cannot  say  that ;  you  know  it  is 
not  true.  You  can  see  as  well  as  I  that  Ninitta  is 
pining  her  life  out  over  your  neglect.  We  are  not 
free  to  break  her  heart  when  you  yourself  taught 
her  to  love." 

"  I  have  never  been  unkind  to  her,"  he  said,  a 
little  defiantly  ;  "  except  perhaps  when  she  acted 
like  a  mad  woman  and  broke  your  figures." 

"  In  love,"  returned  Helen,  smiling  faintly,  and 
glad  to  take  refuge  in  generalities,  "  sins  of  com- 
mission, as  compared  with  the  deadly  sin  of  omis- 
sion, are  mere  venial  offenses.  It  is  not  what  you 
have  done,  but  what  you  have  left  undone." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  cannot  force  myself  to 
love  her?  " 

"  You  have  made  her  love  you." 

"  But  I  outgrew  her  centuries  ago." 


246  THE  PAGANS. 

"The  price  of  growth  is  always  to  outgrow," 
replied  Helen. 

She  was  struggling  hard  to  keep  the  conversa- 
tion away  from  dangerous  levels.  She  felt  that 
she  must  seem  heartless,  but  none  the  less  she 
went  on  bravely. 

"And  after  all  what  is  outgrowing?  It  is  a 
question  of  moods,  of — " 

But  her  courage  failed  her.  Her  voice  trembled, 
she  turned  away  from  him  and  walked  down  the 
studio,  stopping  here  and  there  as  if  to  examine 
a  cast  or  a  figure,  invisible  through  the  tears  which 
welled  up  in  her  eyes.  The  sculptor  followed  close 
behind  her,  until  she  put  her  hand  upon  the  great 
Oran  rug  which  hung  before  the  door. 

"  Then  you  leave  me,"  he  broke  out  bitterly. 
"  You  make  Ninitta  a  pretext  for  escaping  me. 
You  might  have  told  me  that  you  did  not  care  for 
me.  I  would  not  have  molested  you." 

She  turned  to  him  suddenly,  and  he  was  startled 
by  the  whiteness  of  her  face,  for  she  was  pale  to 
the  very  lips. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  easy  for  me  to  go,"  she 
cried  passionately,  "  to  give  you  up  when  I  love 
you  !  You  should  help  me,  not  make  it  harder. 
Isn't  it  better  to  part  now  while  we  have  nothing 
to  regret  than  to  live  with  a  wrong  between  us?  " 

"  But  what  wrong  will  be  between  us?  Surely 
that  boyish  mistake  need  not  blight  both  ou< 
lives." 


HEAR  T-B  URN  ING  HE  A  T  OF  D  UTY.          247 

"  Can  we  help  it  ?  "  she  asked  sadly. 

"  We  will  help  it !  Are  we  merely  puppets  then, 
to  be  bandied  about  helplessly?  I  told  her  I 
loved  her ;  it  is  no  longer  true,  and  why  is  the 
pledge  that  followed  binding?  " 

"  It  is  not  simply  that  you  gave  her  your  word," 
Helen  returned,  struggling  bravely  with  herself ; 
"  it  is  that  you  made  her  love  you,  and  that  obli- 
gation you  can  never  shake  off.  Oh,  it  is  because 
you  are  too  noble  to  take  a  woman's  love  and 
then  trample  upon  it,  that  I  love  you — that  you 
fill  my  heart." 

She  poured  out  the  words,  her  eyes  blazing,  her 
splendid  form  dilated,  her  arms  involuntarily  ex- 
tended towards  him.  He  took  her  into  his  em- 
brace ;  not  hastily,  not  wildly ;  but  with  a  slow, 
irresistible  movement  that  had  in  it  something  of 
solemnity.  He  showered  kisses  upon  her  hair, 
her  forehead,  her  lips  ;  he  pressed  her  to  his  bosom 
as  if  he  would  absorb  her  into  himself. 

"  My  darling,  my  darling,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse, 
fiery  whisper,  "  I  cannot  give  you  up  !  Think  how 
lonely  I  am  ;  how  I  love  you  ! " 

She  put  up  her  face  and  kissed  him  with  a  long, 
clinging  kiss ;  then  she  freed  herself  from  his 
arms.  They  stood  face  to  face,  her  eyes  appeal- 
ing, until  his  glance  fell  before  hers. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  in  a  voice  so  low  that  she  bent 
forward  to  listen,  "  yes ;  you  must  be  right." 

"  I  am    right,"  she  responded    sadly,    "  I    have 


248  THE  PAGANS. 

fought  against  it  too  much  not  to  be  sure  of 
that." 

"  It  is  an  odd  way  of  proving  my  love  for  you 
to  give  you  up,"  continued  Herman,  with  a  new 
accent  of  bitterness  in  his  voice.  "  Oh,  the  folly 
of  that  boyish  passion  !  " 

He  strode  away  from  her,  as  she  leaned  pant- 
ing against  a  modeling  stand.  The  darkness  was 
gathering  so  rapidly  that  when  he  turned  back  his 
face  came  out  of  the  gloom  like  a  surprise. 

"  My  reward,"  he  said,  "  must  be  that  you  love 
me  ;  but  that  very  reward  makes  it  harder  to  de- 
serve it.  I  am  sure  that  we  would  be  wiser  and 
happier  if  we  had  no  scruples  to  hamper  us." 

"  But  we  have,"  was  her  response  ;  "  to  take 
your  own  words,  we  are  not  mere  puppets." 

Again  he  walked  away  from  her,  and  for  a  few 
moments  there  was  no  sound  but  that  of  his  heavy 
footsteps,  which  seemed  to  make  the  silence  more 
solemn  and  penetrating. 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  ask,"  he  burst  out  sud- 
denly. "  I  will  even  marry  her  if  you  wish." 

"  I  ask  nothing.  It  is  not  I  but  your  convictions 
you  should  follow.  I  am  not  even  able  to  advise. 
Your  own  instincts  are  better  and  nobler  than  any 
thing  I  can  say  to  you."  She  stopped  and  choked 
back  a  sob.  "  Oh,  Grant,  it  is  so  hard  !  "  she  cried. 

She  had  never  used  that  name  before,  and  it  so 
thrilled  him  with  joy  and  pain  that  he  made  an 
impulsive  movement  as  if  once  more  to  take  her 


HEAR  T-B  URN  ING  HE  A  T  OF  DUTY.          249 

in  his  arms  ;  but  she  lifted  her  hand  with  a  ges- 
ture of  negation. 

"  I  have  been  tempted  as  well  as  you,"  she  con- 
tinued. "  I  have  said  to  myself  a  thousand  times 
that  love  justified  all,  and  that  these  theories  were 
too  fine  spun.  I  could  not  keep  the  thought  of  you 
down  even  when  I  first  knew  I  was  a  widow,  and 
I  said  over  and  over  to  myself  that  now  no  one 
stood  between  us.  I  knew  it  was  no  use,  but  I 
lay  awake  in  the  night  and  tried  to  prove  to  my- 
self that  Ninitta  had  no  claim, — but,  oh  !  you  are 
too  much  to  me  for  me  to  be  willing  that  you 
should  do  what  we  both  know  is  wrong  and  cruel. 
I  can  endure  anything  better  than  that  you  should 
not  always  be  my  ideal ;  and  I  should  hate  myself 
if  I  tempted  you  to  wrong." 

"What  I  am,"  he  said  brokenly,  moved  most  of 
all  by  the  tears  upon  her  cheeks,  "  is  nothing.  You 
have  beaten  this  temptation,  not  I ;  I  would  have 
done  any  thing  if  you  had  encouraged  me.  I 
am  a  very  ordinary  mortal,  Helen,  when  one  really 
knows  my  littleness." 

She  smiled  through  her  tears  at  him. 

"  You  shall  not  abuse  yourself ;  "  she  replied. 
"  I  will  not  have  it." 

There  was  not  much  further  said  between  them. 
They  remained  together  until  the  dusk  filled  the 
studio,  and  it  looked  again  like  a  ghost-world  as 
on  the  morning  they  two  had  come  into  it  to  see 
the  dead  form  modeled  in  red  clay.  Perhaps  it 


250  THE  PAGANS. 

was  upon  this  remembrance  that  at  length  Mrs. 
Greyson  said: 

"  Will  you  give  me,  before  I  go  to  Europe,  that 
figure  you  showed  me  ?  " 

"  I  will  give  you  any  thing  you  ask,"  he  an- 
swered ;  "  I  wish  I  might  add  myself.  Is  it  right," 
he  added,  with  sudden  fire,  "  for  me  to  tie  myself 
to  that  model  girl  ?  Am  I  worth  nothing  better 
than  that  ?  " 

"  You  are  worth  the  best  woman  on  earth  ;  but 
— oh,  I  cannot  argue  it,  but  I  feel  it ;  I  am  sure 
that  it  cannot  be  right  to  deny  the  claim  which 
you  yourself  gave  her,  Grant.  I  know  by  myself 
what  it  would  be  to  lose  you." 

"But  she  is  not  the  woman  you  are.  Her  feel- 
ings are  those  of  an  ignorant  peasant  ;  she — 

Helen  laid  her  fingers  lightly  upon  his  lips. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  don't  go  on.  We  have  said  it 
all  once.  You  are  trying  to  out-argue  your  own 
convictions.  I  must  go  now.  It  is  almost  dark 
already." 

She  took  a  step  or  two  towards  the  door  and 
again  laid  her  hand  upon  the  rug  portiere.  Then 
as  by  a  common  impulse  they  turned  towards  each 
other,  and  once  more  she  was  locked  in  his  embrace. 

And  to-night,  sitting  alone  in  the  dark,  with 
dilated  eyes,  Helen  felt  still  the  ecstasy  of  that 
moment,  but  murmured  to  herself: 

"  It  must  not  be  again ;  I  will  not  see  him 
alone." 


XXXV. 

PARTED   OUR  FELLOWSHIP. 

Othello  ;  ii.— i. 

''POM  BENTLY'S  studio  that  night  was  a  sight 
1  well  worth  seeing. 

Tom  had  two  rooms  in  Studio  Building,  open- 
ing into  each  other  by  folding  doors,  which  were 
never  known  to  be  shut.  The  walls  were  hung 
with  old  French  tapestry,  its  rich,  soft  colors  har- 
monizing exquisitely  with  some  dull-red  velvet 
draperies  from  Venice.  Bits  of  armor,  some  of 
them  very  splendid,  were  disposed  here  and  there, 
while  a  wealth  of  bric-a-brac  enriched  every  nook 
and  corner.  In  the  doorway  hung  an  old  altar- 
lamp  of  silver,  with  a  cup  of  ruby  glass,  and  from 
various  points  depended  other  lamps  of  Moresque 
and  antique  shapes.  A  pair  of  tall  brass  flambeau- 
stands,  spoil  of  a  Belgian  cathedral  sacked  a  couple 
of  centuries  ago,  upheld  the  heaviest  candles  Tom 
had  been  able  to  find,  which  smoked  and  flared 
most  picturesquely. 

Bently  had  traveled  widely,  every  where  picking 
up  graceful  and  artistic  trifles — stuffs  from  Algiers ; 
rugs  from  Persia  and  Turkey ;  weapons  from  Tripo- 
li and  India  and  Tunis;  musical  instruments  from 


2$  2  THE  PAGANS. 

Egypt  and  Spain;  antiques  from  Greece  and  Ger. 
many  and  Italy;  and  pottery  from  everywhere. 
His  studio  was  the  envy  of  all  his  brother  artists, 
although  he  himself  growled  about  it  profanely, 
declaring  that  he  had  so  much  rubbish  about  him 
that  he  could  not  work,  yet  nevertheless  declining 
to  part  with  a  single  object. 

"  I  ought  to  clear  the  place  out,"  he  would  say. 
"  My  pictures  are  getting  to  look  like  advertise- 
ments of  an  old  clo'  shop,  and  if  a  man  doesn't 
change  all  his  properties  every  year,  the  sapient 
critics  say  he  has  become  mannered.  But  I  can't 
let  them  go ;  or  rather  they  won't  let  me  go  ;  they 
hang  on  like  barnacles  to  an  old  hulk." 

The  Pagans  were  six  that  night,  Fenton's  place 
being  unfilled.  The  delinquency  of  the  absent 
artist  was  a  good  deal  commented  upon,  yet  always 
as  if  an  effort  were  made  to  keep  the  subject  out 
of  the  conversation.  It  came  up  again  and  again, 
and  that  not  unnaturally,  since  it  was  necessarily 
in  every  man's  thoughts. 

"  He's  a  mellifluous  coward,  now  isn't  he  ?  " 
Bently  remarked,  with  his  usual  picturesque  disre- 
gard of  the  conventional  use  of  words.  "  The 
average  American  couldn't  have  been  more 
sneaking." 

"  He  was  always  afraid  of  the  rough  grain  of 
life,"  Rangely  responded.  "  I  always  told  him  he 
was  a  born  coward.  He  could  never  serve  any 
cause  that  wouldn't  give  him  a  uniform  of  broad- 


PARTED  OUR  FELLOWSHIP.  253 

cloth.  But  he  was  born  for  something  better 
than  tagging  after  Calvin  and  his  tribe,  heaven 
knows." 

"  Bah !  "  went  on  Bently,  "  the  bad  taste  of  it ! 
I  could  get  over  every  thing  else,  but  the  bad  taste 
of  proving  a  sneak,  and  giving  up  every  thing 
worth  while." 

Somebody  threw  in  a  quotation  from  Brown- 
ing's Lost  Leader,  and  then  Grant  Herman,  trying 
to  turn  the  conversation,  took  up  Bently's  re- 
mark. 

"You're  right,  Tom,"  he  said,  "in  your  view  of 
taste.  Taste  is  sublimated  morality.  It  is  the 
appreciation  of  the  proportion  and  fitness  of  all 
things  in  the  universe,  and  of  course  it  is  above 
simple  morality,  for  that  is  founded  upon  a  partial 
view.  Taste  is  the  universal,  where  a  system  of 
morals  is  the  local." 

"Can't  you  say  that  of  art?"  asked  Rangely. 
"  I  should  think  art  is  the  universal,  where  re- 
ligion is  the  provincial.  A  religion  expresses  the 
needs  and  the  aspirations  of  a  race  or  a  country, 
while  art  embodies  the  aspirations  and  attributes 
of  humanity." 

"  Good  !  "  Bently  responded.  "  That  is  better 
than  I  should  have  said  it,  but  it's  my  belief,  all 
the  same.  There  are  so  few  people  who  have  im- 
agination enough  even  to  understand  what  one 
means  by  saying  that  art  is  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  worth  living  for.  Why,  art  is  the  supreme 


254  THE  PAGANS. 

expression  of  humanity ;  the  apotheosis  of  all  the 
best  there  is  in  the  race." 

"  I  don't  see  that,"  objected  another.  "  Isn't 
religion  the  expression  of  the  longings  of  the  soul, 
or  whatever  there  is  in  us  we  call  soul  ?  I  can't 
say  it  well,  but  it  seems  to  me  you  talk  of  re- 
ligions, not  religion." 

"  People  seldom  take  the  trouble  to  make  that 
distinction.  He  who  attacks  any  of  the  religions 
is  generally  set  down  as  striking  at  religion 
itself." 

"  Religion,"  returned  Bently,  "  is  the  expression 
of  fear,  and  nothing  else,  if  you  sift  it  to  the  bot- 
tom. Knowledge  kills  so-called  religion  as  surely 
as  it  does  those  lower  forms  of  belief  which  it  is 
nowadays  the  fashion  to  dub  superstition.  It  is 
precisely  the  same  feeling  that  builds  churches 
and  that  rhymes  the  country  hag's  charms.  Fairies 
and  saints  are  double  and  twisted  cousins,  after  all." 

"  But  religion,"  persisted  the  German,  "  is  more 
than  the  expression  of  fear  ;  it  is  the  embodiment 
of  the  aspirations  of  mankind  ;  of  the  instinct  and 
desire  for  worship." 

"  For  worshipping  something,"  amended  Tom. 
"  That  is  the  same  thing  differently  phrased." 

"  No,  it  isn't,  either.  To  yearn  for  the  higher 
is  not  to  show  that  we  fear  it,  but  that  we  long  to 
grow  like  it.  It  is  a  confession  of  incomplete- 
ness, of  weakness,  I  grant  you ;  but  a  thousand 
times  no  to  your  calling  it  fear." 


PARTED  OUR  FELLOWSHIP.  255 

"  I  confess  to  having  been  hasty,  and  modify 
my  words  so  far  as  to  say ;  an  expression  of  fear 
or  weakness." 

"  Is  there  then  any  shame  in  acknowledging 
weakness?"  demanded  the  German,  pushing  him 
as  hard  as  he  was  able.  "  It  certainly  is  honest." 

"Is  there  any  shame  to  formulating  fear?" 
retorted  the  other,  deftly  evading  him. 

"  Then  see  how  religion  always  appeals  to  art  to 
help  out  its  ultimate  expression, "observed  Rangely. 

"And  how  it  has  failed,"  added  Bently,  "when 
it  has  not  had  art  to  help  it.  Puritanism  tried  to 
get  on  without  art,  and  where  is  Puritanism  ?  You 
couldn't  find  a  trace  of  it,  if  it  hadn't  come  down 
on  its  marrow-bones  and  begged  art  to  build  its 
churches,  compose  its  music,  and  regulate  its 
rituals." 

"  It  is  no  more  fair  to  say  that,"  objected  an- 
other Pagan,  doggedly,  "  than  to  say  that  art  has 
gone  to  religion  for  help.  Their  accounts  are 
pretty  evenly  balanced." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  Rangely  returned.  "  Art  has 
never  gained  by  being  religious,  but  by  being  art ; 
but  religion  owes  its  hold  largely  to  the  help  art 
has  given  it." 

"  And  it  has  paid  its  debts  by  blackguarding  art 
from  every  pulpit  it  has  builded  for  it." 

"As  Fenton  used  to  say,"  Ainsworth  remarked, 
"  art  has  been  used  as  the  sugar-coating  to  the 
bitter  pill  of  religion." 


256  THE  PAGANS. 

"  Oh,  Fenton  again,"  Bently  exclaimed  impa- 
tiently. "  What  did  you  bring  him  up  for?  Who 
the  devil  would  have  thought  Fenton  would  have 
turned  out  so  ?  " 

"  I  can  tell  you  a  piece  of  news,"  said  Rangely. 
"  The  Election  Committee  blackballed  Calvin  this 
afternoon." 

"  Good  !  "  cried  they  all ;  and  some  body  added  : 
"  But  Fenton  said  he'd  resign  if  Calvin  wasn't 
elected." 

"  Resign,"  echoed  Rangely,  "  I  guess  he'll 
have  to.  He's  been  sent  to  Coventry  by  half  the 
Club  now  for  that  Graves  affair." 

"The  Graves  affair?"  some  one  queried. 
"  What's  that  ?  What  else  has  he  been  doing  ? 
If  a  man  starts  to  go  to  the  devil,  it  does  seem  as 
if  he  never  could  get  ahead  fast  enough." 

"  Miss  Graves  was  going  to  buy  one  of  Flacker- 
man's  pictures,  and  heaven  knows  he  needs  the 
money ;  and  Fenton,  who  has  always  pretended 
to  be  Flack's  friend,  talked  her  into  taking  one  of 
his  instead ;  or  rather  he  got  Calvin  to  go  to  her 
and  do  it.  It  was  a  stunning  Flackerman,  too ; 
and  we  were  all  rejoicing  over  his  luck." 

"  I  would  not  be  too  ready  to  believe  that 
story,"  Grant  Herman  said.  "  I  don't  think  Fen- 
ton's  gone  utterly  to  the  bad  all  at  once.  He's 
living  expensively,  they  say,  and  possibly  he  let 
Calvin  go  to  Miss  Graves  ;  but  I  don't  believe 
Arthur  ever  originated  that  sneaking  scheme,  and 


PARTED  OUR  FELLOWSHIP.  257 

I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  never  knew  the 
rights  of  the  case." 

"  He's  done  what  so  many  artists  have  been 
bullied  into  doing  before,"  Ainsworth  observed. 
"  If  he  has  sold  his  birthright  for  a  mess  of  pot- 
tage, that  is  precisely  what  the  patrons  of  art  in 
this  country  demand  that  every  man  shall  do  who 
comes  here.  I  could  tell  you  of  a  dozen  good 
fellows  who've  been  spoiled  in  that  way.  I  am 
far  enough  outside  to  look  on  in  an  unbiased  way  ; 
but  they  treat  us  architects  in  the  same  fashion. 
Lots  of  the  most  rubbishy  and  conventional  men 
we  have,  started  out  to  be  fair  and  work  from  con- 
viction ;  and  they  simply  had  the  choice  between 
subservience  and  starvation,  and  cases  of  the 
choice  of  death  from  starvation  haven't  been  over 
plenty." 

"  Oh,  a  man  is  known  by  the  tailor  he  keeps," 
threw  in  Rangely  ;  "  especially  if  he  doesn't  pay 
him." 

"  It's  all  a  game  of  cut-throat,"  Bently  re- 
marked philosophically;  "  art  and  business  alike." 

"  I  should  hate  to  have  my  throat  cut,"  ob- 
served the  German  Pagan  in  a  matter  of  fact  tone  ; 
"  it  must  let  a  dreadful  draught  into  the  system." 

"  Oh,  if  you  were  beheaded,"  cried  Rangely, 
"  you'd  turn  into  a  capital  beer  fountain,  so  your 
friends  would  find  some  consolation,  even  in  your 
loss." 

A  diversion  was  caused  here  by  the  production 


258  THE  PAGANS. 

of    a   splendid   Japanese   punch-bowl,   supported 

upon  a  teakwood  stand.     In  it  the  host  proceeded 

to  brew  a  potent  and  steaming  mixture,  whose 

fragrance  must  have  delighted  the  jocund  gods  of 

jollity  and  laughter.  Tom  was  notorious  for  being 

chronically  in  pecuniary  difficulties,  but  he  was 

;    always  adding  to  his  collection  of  bibelots,  and  he 

:    never  was  known  to  lack  the  means  of  concocting 

a  glorious  punch. 

"  Ye  gods !  "  exclaimed  Ainsworth,  "  how  good 
that  smells.  It  almost  overcomes  the  general 
mustiness  of  Tom's  den  here,  which  usually  has 
all  the  odors  of  the  Ghetto  from  which  his  things 
are  dragged." 

"  Casper  is  intoxicated  already  with  the  mere 
fumes,"  retorted  Bently  good  humoredly.  "  He's 
bound  to  fill  a  drunkard's  grave  sooner  or 
later." 

"  No;  I  never  shall,"  chuckled  the  other.  "  I'm 
altogether  too  good  natured  to  crowd  the  drunk- 
ard out." 

This  sally  was  received  with  applause,  and  the 
glasses  being  filled,  the  usual  toasts  to  the  goddess 
Pasht  and  to  art  were  drank. 

"  And  to  our  seven,"  went  on  Herman,  holding 
up  his  glass,  and  going  on  with  the  formula  they 
had,  half  unconsciously,  fallen  into  the  habit  of 
using,  although  they  made  no  pretense  of  having 
a  ritual. 

But  he  set  his  glass  down  untasted,  suddenly 


PARTED  OUR  FELLOWSHIP.  259 

remembering  that  their  ranks  were  broken,  and 
the  others  followed  his  example. 

"  The  difference  between  religion  and  art," 
broke  out  Rangely,  hurriedly,  to  cover  the  awk- 
ward silence  which  followed,  "  is  that  religion  is  a 
matter  of  tradition,  of  convention  ;  it  rests  upon 
authority,  while  art  springs  from  inner  convic- 
tion." 

"  Sophistry,"  retorted  the  German,  picking  up 
the  gauntlet ;  "  there  have  been  a  good  many 
things  said  here  to-night  which  sound  well  but 
won't  stand  fire.  It  is  precisely  for  following  con- 
ventions in  art  that  we  blame  Fenton." 

"  And  that  proves  my  point." 

"  No,  it  doesn't ;  there's  as  much  art  that  de- 
pends upon  tradition  as  there  is  religion." 

"  No,"  replied  Rangely.  "  In  so  far  as  art  gets 
its  inspiration  from  fossil  tradition  it  is  lifeless  and 
indeed  ceases  to  be  art.  Religion  presupposes 
something  exterior  ;  while  art  is  the  outgrowth  of 
the  individual's  own  mind,  the  best  expression  of 
his  inner  strength." 

"  Religion,"  Herman  threw  in,  "  demands  the 
existence  of  the  unknown  ;  art  only  the  existence 
of  the  inexpressible." 

"Yet  art  devotes  itself  to  expression." 

"Yes,  but  more  to  suggesting.  It  phrases  the 
possible  so  as  to  suggest  that  which  is  above  and 
beyond  expression,  yet  toward  which  it  helps  the 
emotions  and  the  imagination.  I  think  a  man's 


260  THE  PAGANS. 

soul  a  matter  of  very  little  moment  as  compared 
to  his  imagination,  and  it  is  because  art  ministers 
to  the  latter  that  I  place  it  above  religion." 

The  talk  was  diverted  here  by  some  laughing 
remark  which  led  on  to  a  train  of  gay  badinage. 
The  German  tried  to  bring  the  conversation  back 
to  serious  levels,  but  in  vain. 

"  Oh,  what  fustian  we've  given  ourselves  up  to 
to-night,"  laughed  Rangely. 

"  It  amuses  me  to  hear  you  fellows  discuss  re- 
ligion," Tom  Bently  observed.  "You  wander 
round  the  subject  as  aimlessly  as  the  young  wo- 
men in  the  first  half  hour  of  a  Harvard  symphony 
concert." 

"  Never  you  mind,  Bently,"  rejoined  Ainsworth. 
"  You  are  sure  of  coming  out  all  right ;  the  gods 
are  bound  to  protect  humbug,  for  on  it  depends 
their  own  existence." 

They  drifted  in  little  groups  to  different  parts 
of  the  studio,  admiring  this  or  that  bit  of  grace 
or  beauty.  Then  the  German,  who  was  a  profes- 
sional musician,  tuned  an  old  mandolin  with 
which  a  Venetian  lover  some  star-lit  night  centu- 
ries ago,  may  have  serenaded  his  loved  one  from 
his  gondola ;  and  to  its  trembling  accompani- 
ment sang  a  quaint  chansonette,  his  Teutonic  ac- 
cent making  havoc  among  its  liquid  Italian  sylla- 
bles. Then  Rangely  possessed  himself  of  a 
strange  African  instrument,1  a  crooked  gourd,  hol- 
lowed and  strung  with  twisted  tree  fibers,  and 


PARTED  OUR  FELLOWSHIP.  20 1 

joined  to  the  notes  of  the  mandolin,  its  weird, 
cicada-like  harshness.  The  duet  moved  Bently  to 
clear  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  articles  from 
the  lid  of  a  spinet  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV., 
upon  which  be-powdered  and  be-patched  dames, 
long  forgotten,  had  strummed  pretty  little  tink- 
ling tunes,  while  all  about  them  other  marionette- 
like  ladies  and  gallants  played  at  little  tinkling 
loves,  as  pretty  and  as  empty. 

The  three  instruments,  so  strangely  matched, 
went  off  together  in  a  variety  of  music,  imparting 
to  every  thing  an  uncanny,  ghostly  flavor,  as  if 
these  airs  came  in  wild  echoes  from  the  shores  of 
some  dead  past. 

"  Oh,  stop  that,"  Herman  cried,  at  last.  "  It's 
too  melancholy.  Your  instruments  are  all  dead  ; 
and  it's  no  use  trying  to  get  live  music  out  of 
them." 

For  reply  the  German  led  off  in  a  drearisome 
minor  folk-tune,  Rangely  and  Bently  improvising 
their  parts  with  some  skill,  albeit  not  always  with 
perfect  harmony. 

"  Ye  Gods !  "  cried  Ainsworth,  seizing  the  mando- 
lin out  of  the  player's  grasp.  "  Is  this  a  Hottentot 
funeral  ?  Here,  Fred,  give  me  that  diabolical 
gourd  ;  it  is  haunted  by  the  soul  of  a  Caffre  med- 
icine man." 

"  I  say,  fellows,"  spoke  Rangely,  as  the  din  sub- 
sided, "  I  move  we  make  this  a  funeral,  by  break- 
ing up  the  Pagans.  Of  course  there  is  nothing  to 


262  THE  PAG  A. VS. 

hinder  our  meeting  round  at  each  other's  places 
whenever  we  want  to  ;  but  we've  either  got  to 
turn  Fenton  out  or  break  up.  I,  for  one,  am  cow- 
ard enough  to  prefer  to  break  up." 

"  So  say  I,"  said  Herman.  "  When  once  a  circle 
like  this  is  broken,  there  is  an  end  of  it.  It  can't 
be  patched  together." 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence  a  moment. 
To  disband  seemed  like  an  acknowledgment  of 
defeat.  Many  another  band  of  ardent  souls  has 
known  the  feeling,  with  its  dreary  ache,  although 
it  oftener  happens  that  a  circle  of  this  kind  dis- 
appears by  the  gradual  dropping  away  of  its 
numbers  one  by  one  rather  than  that  its  members 
are  brought  face  to  face  with  the  necessity  of 
owning  that  its  existence  had  resulted  in  failure. 
Whatever  their  faults  and  extravagances,  whatever 
their  errors  and  intolerance,  they  were  sincere, 
self  sacrificing  and  ardent  beyond  the  men  who 
made  up  the  world  about  them  ;  a  group  of  eager 
lovers  of  truth  and  art  who  had  been  drawn  to- 
gether by  mutual  aims  and  enthusiasms.  Their 
fierceness  had  been  in  defense  of  honesty  and 
sincerity,  their  disinterestedness  was  attested  by 
the  fact  that  any  one  of  them  might  have  made 
his  peace  with  Philistia  and  been  rewarded  for 
his  complaisance  had  he  so  chosen.  Doubtless 
they  had  their  faults  and  foibles,  yet  their  com- 
radeship, in  its  essential  purport  had  been  true  and 
noble. 


PARTED  OUR  FELLOWSHIP.  263 

They  in  no  wise  abandoned  their  aims  in 
agreeing  with  the  proposition  to  disband,  but 
about  their  fellowship  had  been  a  certain  un- 
phrased  tenderness,  at  which,  if  put  in  word,  any 
one  of  them  might  have  scoffed,  yet  which  never- 
theless they  all  felt  strongly  in  their  secret  hearts, 
and  all  were  conscious  that  after  this  defection  of 
Fenton,  the  circle  could  never  be  perfect  again. 
They  did  not  discuss  the  matter  now,  but  in  the 
interval  of  silence  each  acknowledged  to  himself 
that  to  disband  was  best ;  and  briefly  each  gave 
his  assent  ;  all  soberly,  some  almost  gruffly. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  the  goddess  Pasht 
lost  her  last  band  of  followers,  and  the  Pagans 
assembled  no  more  forever. 


XXXVI. 

AS  FALSE  AS  STAIRS    OF  SAND. 

Merchant  of  Venice  ;  v. — 2. 

T  7ERY  likely  you  cannot  see  it,"  Arthur  Fenton 

V    said,  striking  in  the  background  of  a  portrait 

with  vicious  roughness.  "  Women  and  brutes  differ 

from  men  in  lacking  reason  ;  if  you  were  logical 

you'd  see." 

"  See  that  you  are  right  in  selling  your  convic- 
tions for  patronage,"  Helen  returned  gravely,  ig- 
noring the  insult.  "  Then  I  am  glad  I  am  not 
logical." 

"  If  you  choose  to  put  it  that  way,"  he  retorted 
doggedly,  "  I  must  still  say  yes." 

It  was  Friday  morning,  and  Helen  was  to  sail 
the  next  day.  She  had  come  to  Fenton's  studio 
to  bid  him  good-by,  knowing  that  they  should 
have  that  to  say  which  could  not  be  freely  spoken 
before  Edith,  and  yet  not  choosing  to  have  him 
come  to  her  own  house  without  his  wife. 

"  Poverty,"  he  went  on  aggressively,  "  is  nature's 
protest  against  civilization,  and  still  more  against 
art.  I  am  bound  to  fight  nature  on  her  own 
ground,  am  I  not  ?" 

"If  I  were  a  little  more  orthodox,"  she  replied, 


AS  FALSE  AS  STAIRS  OF  SAND.  265 

"  I  might  quote  Scripture  upon  life's  being  some 
thing  more  than  meat.  Oh,  Arthur,  what  is  the 
use  of  all  this  fencing  ?  All  that  is  asked  of  you 
is  to  be  honest ;  and  to  be  honest  the  life  of  an 
artist  in  America  to-day  must  be  a  protest  against 
dominant  Philistinism  ;  nobody  has  ever  acknowl- 
edged that  oftener  or  more  emphatically  than  you 
have." 

"  But  the  artists,"  returned  he,  not  meeting  her 
eyes,  "  are  too  self-centered.  Look  at  the  Pagans ; 
what  efforts  have  they  ever  made  to  win  society  ? 
Society  is  ready  enough  to  take  them  in." 

"Arthur!  Is  it  you  who  say  that?  To  quote 
yourself  against  yourself, '  every  work  of  art  is  an 
effort  to  conquer  Philistinism.'  Patronage  seems 
already  to  have  sucked  the  life  out  of  you." 

"  You  may  say  what  you  like,"  Fenton  remarked 
defensively  ;  "  you  cannot  make  me  angry." 

"  That  may  be  your  misfortune,"  rejoined  she 
sadly,  "  but  I  fear  it  is  your  fault." 

"  The  sin  of  a  thing,"  he  said,  putting  down  his 
brushes  impatiently,  "  oftener  consists  in  regard- 
ing it  as  a  sin  than  in  the  thing  itself." 

He  went  to  the  round  window,  for  his  studio 
was  high  up  in  the  building,  and  removed  the 
Japanese  umbrella  which  served  as  its  screen.  He 
threw  himself  upon  a  pile  of  cushions,  regarding 
darkly  the  tops  of  the  trees  in  the  Old  Granary 
burying-ground  opposite. 

"  Que  voulez-vous  ?"  he  demanded  coolly,  after 


266  THE  PAGANS. 

a  moment's  silence.  "You  are  unreasonable  ;  you 
always  are.  I  must  live.  I  don't  know  why  you 
have  a  right  to  object  to  that.  I  have  married  a 
wife  who  is  well  connected,  and  I  always  meant  to 
make  her  connections  help  me,  Philistines  or  not. 
Even  the  godly  Israelites  made  a  virtue  of  spoil- 
ing the  Egyptians." 

"  But  that  was  in  departing  from  their  country." 

"We  won't  argue,"  the  artist  declared  sulkily. 
"Argument  is  only  disputing  about  definitions, 
and  we  should  never  agree.  I  don't  expect  you 
to  think  I'm  right.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  have 
my  doubts  myself.  You  might  at  least  allow  me 
the  satisfaction  of  humbugging  myself  if  I  am  able." 

She  regarded  him  sadly.  The  chance  remarks 
about  Edith's  relatives  seemed  to  throw  a  new 
and  sinister  light  upon  the  reasons  of  his  marriage. 
She  wondered  if  she  had  not  been  mistaken  in 
following  her  impulse  to  come  here,  and  whether 
words  could  effect  any  thing. 

"  But  Edith  ?  "  she  said  at  length,  and  as  if  half 
to  herself ;  "  does  not  her  honesty  rebuke  you  ? 
Don't  you  feel  unworthy  of  her  ?  " 

"  Well,  and  if  her  severe  virtue  does  repel  me  ?  " 
he  asked,  a  hard  look  coming  into  his  face,  "  am  I 
to  blame  for  that  also  ?  " 

"You  are  speaking  of  your  wife  ! " 

"  C'est  vrai"  with  a  shrug,  " but  the  one  lie  I 
never  tell  to  or  of  any  woman  is  that  my  passion 
for  her  will  be  eternal,  and  I  am  long  ago  tired  of 


AS  FALSE  AS  STAIRS  OF  SAND.  267 

Edith.  Her  innocence  bores  me.  She  urges  me, 
too,  to  do  precisely  the  things  you  condemn.  And 
after  all  what  is  my  crime  ?  Simply  that  I  am 
following  the  intelligence  of  the  majority  instead 
of  being  governed  by  the  growls  of  the  discon- 
tented minority,  any  one  of  whom  would  be  glad 
of  the  chance  to  follow  my  example." 

"  It  is  not  with  whom  you  side,"  Helen  answered. 
"  It  is  the  simple  question  of  having  the  courage 
of  your  convictions.  The  dry  rot  of  hypocrisy  is 
ruining  you.  I  can  see  Peter  Calvin's  smirk  in 
every  brush  mark  of  your  canvas  there  !  " 

For  reply  he  threw  a  brush  at  the  picture  upon 
the  easel.  Then  he  sat  upright  in  his  cushions 
and  faced  her. 

"  Well,"  he  ejaculated,  half-angrily,  half  bitterly, 
"you  are  right.  You  cannot  scorn  me  half  as 
much  as  I  scorn  myself,  and  have  ever  since  I 
asked  Edith  Caldwell  to  marry  me.  I  meant  then 
to  make  my  peace  with  the  Philistines  ! " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  impetuously  and  shook 
himself  as  if  to  shake  off  some  disgusting  touch. 

"  I  like  a  comfortable  home  at  the  West  End," 
he  continued  impetuously,  "  far  better  than  I  do 
dreary  bachelor  lodgings,  now  here,  now  there.  I 
prefer  faring  sumptuously  every  day,  to  dining  in 
an  attic.  Whatever  else  may  be  said  of  that  terri- 
ble Calvin — my  God  !  Helen,  how  I  would  like  to 
choke  him ! — he  certainly  has  plenty  of  money, 
and  he  patronizes  me  beautifully." 


268  THE  PAGANS. 

He  walked  up  to  the  easel  and  regarded  the 
half-finished  portrait  contemptuously. 

"  Honesty,"  he  began  again  with  cool  irony,  "  is 
doubtless  a  charming  thing  for  digestive  purposes, 
but  it  is  a  luxury  too  expensive  for  me.  The  gods 
in  this  country  bid  for  shams,  and  shams  I  pur- 
pose giving  them.  I  am  not  sure  I  shall  not  go 
into  chromos  eventually.  I  don't  enjoy  this 
especially,  but  after  all  that  is  a  mere  matter  of 
standards,  and  I  have  resolved  to  change  mine,  so 
that  I  shall  end  by  enjoying  or  even  honoring  my 
eminently  respectable  self.  As  for  art,  she  is  a 
jade  that  can't  give  her  lovers  even  a  fire  to  sit  by 
while  they  woo  her.  I'm  sorry  for  her,  but  I  don't 
see  clearly  how  I  can  help  her  by  sitting  down  to 
starve  in  her  company;  so  I've  made  friends  with 
the  mammon  of  unrighteousness — you  see  my 
orthodox  education  was  not  wholly  lost  upon  me ! 
Voila  tout !  Honesty,  I  say,  is  for  the  most  part 
cant,  and  at  any  rate  only  a  relative  term.  I 
prefer  substantial  good.  If  you  despise  me, 
tant  pis  pour  —  one  of  us;  whichever  you 
choose." 

He  spoke  defiantly,  but  faltered  a  little  at  the 
last  words.  She  rose  as  he  finished. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said.  "  You  have  taught  me 
forever  to  distrust  my  own  judgments,  for  I  had 
mistaken  you  for  a  man !  I  am  sorry  that  I 
have  ever  known  you.  You  lower  my  respect 
for  all  the  race." 


AS  FALSE  AS  STAIRS  OF  SAND.  269 

"  But  I  acknowledge  my  faults." 

"Acknowledge!"  she  retorted  in  disdain. 
"  What  of  that  ?  Acknowledgment  is  not 
reparation,  though  many  try  to  make  it  so." 

She  walked  towards  the  door,  but  he  reached 
it  first  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  latch. 

"  You  are  going  away,"  he  said.  "  Who 
knows  when  we  shall  ever  meet  again.  At  least 
remember  that  I  condemn  myself  as  sharply  as 
you  can." 

"  That  is  the  degradation  of  it,"  was  her  retort, 
her  eyes  blazing  at  him.  "  If  you  could  plead 
ignorance,  I  could  pity  you." 

"  Edith  is  a  saint,"  he  went  on,  not  heeding, 
"  but  her  good  is  my  evil.  I  do  not  plead  it  as  an 
excuse ;  I  have  and  I  want  no  excuse ;  but  it  is 
true  that  temptation  could  come  to  me  in  no  shape 
so  insidious  as  through  her  sincerity." 

"  Then  you  will  be  honest !  "  pleaded  Helen. 

"  I  do  not  say  that.  I  think  I  shall  go  on  as  I 
am ;  but  I  have  changed  my  idea  of  my  epitaph. 
It  shall  be  only  the  word  '  Pardon.'  ' 

"  Your  old  one  was  better,"  she  retorted  sting, 
ingly,  "  and  better  than  either  would  be  a  blank ! 
Let  me  pass!" 


XXXVII. 

FAREWELL  AT    ONCE,   FOR    ONCE,   FOR  ALL  AND 
EVER. 

Richard  II.;  ii. — 2. 

TH  E  outward  bound  steamer  was  almost  ready  to 
sail,  and  all  the  bustle  attendant  upon  departure 
of  an  ocean  craft  eddied  about  three  people  who 
stood  in  a  half-sheltered  nook  upon  the  wharf. 
They  were  saying  little.  Both  Grant  Herman  and 
Ninitta  kept  their  eyes  fixed  upon  Helen,  while 
her  glance  was  cast  to  the  ground,  save  when  she 
raised  her  head  in  speaking. 

The  Italian  from  time  to  time  took  Helen's 
hand  in  hers  and  kissed  it  fondly. 

"  I  pray  the  Madonna  for  you  every  night,"  she 
whispered  in  her  native  tongue,  "  that  she  will 
give  you  a  safe  voyage." 

The  sculptor  watched  all  that  went  on  about 
them,  waiting  with  some  inward  impatience  for 
the  moment  when  the  duty  of  escorting  Mrs. 
Greyson  on  board  would  give  him  an  opportunity 
of  being  a  moment  alone  with  her. 

"We  shall  miss  you  much,"  he  said,  feeling  that 
any  thing  would  be  better  than  the  silence  which 
hedged  them  in  amid  the  noisy  bustle  of  the 


FARE  WELL  A  T  ONCE,  FOR  ONCE,  ETC.       271 

throng.  "  We  shall  not  soon  fill  your  place,  shall 
we,  Ninitta?  " 

He  did  not  listen  to  the  eager  answer;  his  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  Helen's  face,  and  for  her  alone  he 
had  ears. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  again  with  nervous  platitude, 
when  once  more  they  had  lapsed  into  the  silence  he 
found  it  so  hard  to  bear ;  "  neither  my  wife  nor 
myself  has  any  friend  to  take  your  place." 

Some  faint  accent  in  the  tone  in  which  he  re- 
ferred to  his  three  hours'  bride  made  the  widow 
look  up  suddenly.  To  the  question  in  her  eyes 
his  glance  gave  no  answer,  and  for  the  moment  a 
feeling  of  despair  overcame  her.  Had  she  given 
him  up  only  to  the  end  that  his  life  should  be 
miserable  ;  had  she  forced  him  into  a  marriage 
whose  bonds  would  gall  and  chafe  him  with  more 
deadly  and  festering  wounds  as  time  went  on  ? 

But  all  these  questionings  Helen  had  answered 
with  stern  bravery  during  the  sad  wakeful  nights 
and  lonely  days  just  past.  She  had  first  convinced 
herself  that  it  was  right  that  Herman  should  re- 
deem his  old-time  pledge  to  Ninitta,  and  after  that 
she  forced  herself  to  the  bitterer  task  of  realizing 
that  when  time  had  obliterated  somewhat  the 
clearness  of  her  own  image  in  the  sculptor's  heart, 
something  of  his  old  affection  for  the  Italian  might 
be  rekindled  in  his  generous,  warm  nature,  always 
tenderly  chivalrous  towards  woman,  and  sure  to 
prove  doubly  so  to  one  dependent  upon  him.  It 


272  THE  PAGAXS. 

was  hard,  but  Helen  unflinchingly  analyzed  the 
nature  of  her  lover,  and  while  she  could  not  be- 
lieve that  he  would  ever  feel  for  his  wife  the  grand 
passion  which  she  had  herself  inspired  in  his 
breast,  she  saw  for  him  a  tranquil  future  in  which 
his  wife's  devotion  would  be  met  with  enduring, 
even  with  increasing  affection,  which  if  not  love, 
would  be  so  like  it  that  Ninitta,  at  least,  would 
never  distinguish  ;  and  in  which  her  husband 
would  find  comfort  and  warmth,  if  not  fire  and 
aspiration. 

She  had  a  harder  struggle  when  the  thought 
came  to  her,  "  Have  I  not  led  him  into  the  one 
thing  he  most  dreads  and  despises,  an  act  of  in- 
sincerity? Can  a  loveless  marriage  be  honest?" 
But  she  answered  her  doubting  heart ;  "  No ;  he 
has  told  Ninitta  that  he  does  not  love  her  as  of 
old,  and  he  is  not  deceiving  her.  It  is  my  own 
selfishness  that  puts  this  thought  into  my  mind." 
It  may  be  that  Helen  was  wrong,  for  the  influence 
of  her  Puritan  training  had  left  a  strong  impress 
upon  her  moral  sense  in  a  regard  for  the  sanctity 
of  a  pledge,  especially  to  its  spirit  rather  than 
its  letter,  so  deep  as  to  be  almost  morbid ;  yet  at 
least  she  was  self  sacrificing  and  never  more  truly 
consistent  than  in  the  seeming  inconsistency  of 
urging  this  marriage. 

"  Come,"  was  Herman's  word,  almost  a  com- 
mand, when  the  crowd  upon  the  steamer's  deck 
began  definitely  to  separate  into  those  who  were 


FAREWELL  AT  ONCE,  FOR  ONCE,  ETC.       273 

to  go  and  those  who  remained.  "You  must  go 
aboard.  Ninitta,  stand  just  where  you  are  until 
I  come  back.  I  will  be  gone  only  an  instant." 

Helen  turned  and  kissed  Ninitta,  a  sharp  pang 
stabbing  her  very  soul,  as  the  thought  came  to 
her :  "  He  will  love  her ;  she  is  his  wife,  and  he 
will  learn  to  love  her !  "  Then  she  put  her  arm 
upon  Herman's  in  silence. 

She  had  been  alternately  desiring  and  fearing 
this  moment,  until  her  excitement  was  almost  be- 
yond control.  The  sculptor  led  her  on  board  the 
steamer,  and  together  they  descended  to  the  sa- 
loon. Every  body  was  on  deck  except  the  serv- 
ants, and  without  difficulty  a  nook  was  found 
where  the  two  were  alone. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  breaking  the  silence  with  a 
voice  full  of  emotion,  "  it  is  done,  and  we  are 
parted  as  far  as  the  earth  is  wide." 

"No,"  she  answered,  clasping  his  hands  in  hers. 
"  With  a  broken  faith  between  us  we  should  have 
been  separated ;  now  we  are  truly  together,  no 
matter  how  many  oceans  part  us.  It  is  hard ;  it 
is  hard  ;  but  I  know  it  must  be  right." 

He  bent  forward  to  kiss  her. 

"  No,"  she  said,  drawing  back.  "  Your  kisses  be- 
long to  your  wife,  now.  I  have  no  right  even  to 
your  thought.  But  I  cannot  help  telling  you, 
now  we  are  parting,  how  much  it  is  to  me  to  love 
you.  It  is  hard  to  leave  you,  Grant,  to  give  you 
up  ;  but  now  I  understand  that  it  is  better  to  love, 


274  THE  PAGANS. 

even  if  we  are  not  together,  even  though  we  may 
not  belong  to  each  other.  And  I  cannot  but  find 
comfort  in  thinking  that  you  will  not  forget  me." 

"  But  if  hereafter,"  he  began  eagerly,  but  be- 
fore the  words  were  uttered  he  realized  what  they 
implied,  and  a  hot  flush  of  shame  tinged  his 
cheek.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  cannot  think  of  the 
future." 

She  put  up  her  hand  with  a  gesture  of  appeal. 
The  bell  of  the  steamer  sounded  out  sharply 
upon  the  air. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  We  must  say  good-by  with 
no  reservations,  no  hopes,  even  with  no  pray- 
ers. It  is  simply  and  absolutely  good-by. 
And  oh  !  "  she  added,  her  voice  breaking  a  little, 
"  I  do  so  hope  for  your  happiness,  though  I  must 
not  share  it." 

He  wrung  her  hand  and  left  her.  Once  he 
halted,  as  if  to  return,  but  her  gesture  gave 
him  so  absolute  a  farewell  that  he  went 
on.  His  wife  awaited  him  where  he  had  left  her. 
She  slipped  her  arm  through  his. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  back,"  she  said 
in  her  soft  Italian,  lifting  to  his  a  face  full  of  trust 
and  love ;  "  I  was  so  lonely  and  afraid  without 
you." 

He  was  touched  with  a  tender  pity  as  he  looked 
into  her  eyes.  When  he  withdrew  his  glance  the 
steamer  was  moving,  and  he  saw  Helen  leaning 
over  the  rail. 


FAREWELL  AT  ONCE,  FOR  ONCE,  ETC,       275 

She  waved  her  hand,  and  as  the  ship  glided 
away,  down  the  harbor,  these  two,  so  separated, 
yet  so  united,  clung  together  by  their  glances 
until  distance  shut  them  from  each  other's  sight. 


FINIS. 


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